


Howling of the Heart

by pansexualfandommess (redvelvetrose), SincereJester



Series: Winter Is Here [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Protective Sandor Clegane, Sandor Clegane Lives, Sandor Clegane Needs a Hug, Sansa Stark Needs a Hug, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Sweet Sandor Clegane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:49:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22889485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redvelvetrose/pseuds/pansexualfandommess, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SincereJester/pseuds/SincereJester
Summary: Sandor Clegane manages to survive his fight with The Mountain (barely). Arya pulls his dumb arse out of the rubble and gets him treated. And of course Sansa insists on dragging his (still dumb) arse back to Winterfell. Companion piece/sequel to The Curious Incident Of the Dog In the Night and Why the Caged Bird Sings. Can be read as a oneshot.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Series: Winter Is Here [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1586335
Comments: 11
Kudos: 141





	Howling of the Heart

_There are many soulmates, but only one can understand the howling of your heart._  
\- L.L. Musings

Everything was burning. He couldn't see it, but he didn't have to - he could feel the unbearable heat of it on his face. It made him scream and roar and laugh in turns, but he couldn't move. He wished he couldn't feel anything, but unfortunately that wasn't true - all he felt was pain. It was a pity; he had hoped to be dead. 

He had only a hazy idea of what was happening. Last he had heard, the Dragon Queen had been eager to avoid killing innocents. Obviously that idea had gone to Seven Hells and she was now raining destruction down upon King’s Landing with indiscretion. Panic had overtaken the masses and he only had two thoughts in his head; that he hoped Arya had gotten out alive and that Sansa was alive and safe in Winterfell. There was no way he would come out of this alive, there was no point in even thinking of that. 

Pain shrieked through his arm and shoulder blade as he was pulled, debris jostled from atop him. He would have howled if he’d had any voice left. As it was, he felt like his lungs had already melted to blackened pools of tar. 

“Come on, you bloody idiot. Pull yourself together.” Someone pulled on him again, this time eliciting a raw cry from his throat. “That’s it. Get mad. Call me a bitch. Call me a cunt. Come on!” 

He managed to crack one eye open enough to see a familiar silhouette against the orange and green haze. Arya fucking Stark. “Told you- “he coughed, spitting up an alarming amount of blood, “-to fuck off.” 

“Since when have I ever listened to you?” she countered, reaching down and grabbing a scrap of his doublet, pulling on that instead of on his injured arm. 

He wondered for a moment if the Stark girl had managed to kill that cunt of a queen, Cersei. He vaguely remembered her cowering behind the towering form of the Mountain on the crumbling stairway, vainly trying to hold the monster back, but he had only seen the creature that had been his brother then. The bitch had probably slipped past, skulking away in the dusty shadows. Trust Arya Stark to get her bloody revenge even after his warning to her. He just grunted in reply; it hurt too much to say anything. He couldn't see clearly and the very air seared his lungs; grey flecks spattered on his skin and his mouth was dry as ashes. What in Seven Hells was she going on about; did she expect him to leap up and battle their way out of the chaos burning around them? Gods, it hurt just to think of it! 

She kept pulling on him by his clothes, dragging him away from the worst of the burning mess. The Hound was a big man and she could tell that he had no strength in him to move himself. Coughing and wheezing by turns, inch by inch, she slogged through the ashes and blood. “I’ve got… a horse,” she explained, pausing to cough. “If we can just get you on it… I can lead us both out. Find a maester or someone who can treat you.” 

Arya briefly patted his lower back; the only part of him that she was reasonably sure wasn’t injured in any way. Carefully, she picked her way through the remains of King’s Landing. Luck was on their side, as she still remembered the lesser-traveled ways through the city, which had not been choked with bodies or debris. Once they reached the shoreline of the Blackwater, Arya all but dove into the water splashing the ash and blood off of herself. She didn’t want to think about what all of that ash had once been. 

She had to get Sandor and herself out of the city. The encampment outside of the main gates was mostly empty, but for the wounded and a small team of healers and hopefully a maester. Sandor was in no shape to ride back to Winterfell and Sansa would not be happy at all if he died. “Sandor,” she called to him as she collected the horse’s reins. “Try to stay awake a bit longer. At least long enough for me to get you to camp.” 

Sandor gave a cough in reply, glad to have cooler, clear air in his lungs at last. He held the horse's mane in one outstretched hand as well as he could manage, but every step was jarring and torturous. He knew he was bleeding inside and out, and he longed for a sweet oblivion to take him away from the agony. 

It felt like hours, though it took only some fifteen minutes for them to reach the encampment. It took little effort to find the maester’s tent. A few Northmen were scattered outside with minor wounds. Arya pushed past them, muttering angrily, not in the mood to argue about who was next. Luckily, no one was willing to delay Arya Stark. The maester looked up in surprise when she flung the tent flap open. 

“Lady Stark! I did not know you were with the company!” he exclaimed, patting the man he had just finished stitching up on the shoulder. With a grimace, the patient rose and left. 

“I wasn’t,” she said succinctly, turning to help Sandor down and limping him inside to the pallet that had just been de-occupied. “He’s hurt. Badly. You need to make sure he lives.” 

The Maester looked over his new patient. "You need to pray," he advised. "His injuries are indeed severe, but your friend must have some luck to be alive in spite of them. Too many didn't." He looked exhausted, peering at Sandor owlishly, "We need to wash him off, first. He's got several open wounds on his head and all the burns..." 

Arya took a deep breath. Her god wouldn’t care if Sandor lived or died. Frankly, the Many-Faced God would probably prefer death. “Not today,” she whispered with a quiet ferocity. She took off her gloves and went to work, washing her hands and bringing the cloths over. The maester, called Wolkan, had already managed to get what remained of Sandor’s armor off. The man was covered in blood and ash and some viscous, black fluid that Arya realized was probably the Mountain’s blood. Once the rest of his clothes were off, the extent of his injuries became alarmingly apparent. 

Sandor only moaned incoherently in pain during their ministrations, not fully cognizant of his surroundings. Wolkan urged Arya to stay with the Hound while he went to gather medications and surgical supplies, pointing out that she would also likely need some bandaging on her cuts. She looked at Sandor worriedly: he was limp and looked crooked, somehow, with raw, exposed patches of blistered skin in contrast to his old scars. There were gouge marks above his eye sockets, and he was blooming with vicious dark bruises from head to toe. His leather armour had offered some protection from the blows and the flames, but it was the fact that he had fallen on top of his opponent and what must have been the large piles of ash and debris beneath them as cushions that had saved his life. 

Maester Wolkan worked quickly; setting the broken bones in his left arm and shoulder, setting and immobilizing his right knee, wrapping his ribs. His eyes had survived intact, though the inner corners of both sockets were cracked and his nose was broken. He had cuts everywhere, ranging from small and relatively clean to deep and ragged. Yarrow and red root were quickly mashed into a poultice to stop the external bleeding. Comfrey and chickweed were applied to the burns both the cool them and begin healing. “My lady, if you would make some tea out of the dried rose and lemon, it will help to stop the bleeding inside of him,” he advised Arya, realizing she needed a task to keep from being overwhelmed. Even the simple act of washing him off required some herbal remedy in the form of water steeped with bilberry and rosemary. 

**

There was high demand for willow bark and especially milk of the poppy, but they spared as much as possible for Sandor Clegane. It was best to keep him sleeping and immobile, while his broken body tried to heal. When the effects of the medicines wore thin, he would wake but remained too weak for more than swallowing water, broth and whatever else they could spoon down his damaged throat. He barely opened his eyes or made a sound, waiting for the return of the twilight slumber that came with more doses. 

Arya stayed with him as much as she was able. At her command, several of the Northmen were able to carry Sandor on his pallet to a private tent. Maester Wolkan promised to check on him as often as possible. Days stretched into weeks; so much happened that Arya’s head spun. Jon was alive. Jamie and Cersei Lannister had been crushed. The Dragon Queen was dead. Tyrion was arrested. Jon was imprisoned. 

With no one to command them, the Unsullied and the Dothraki were unorganized. Davos was hanging onto threads to install some kind of order. Ravens had been sent to all of the surviving great houses with the news and a request for a meeting. 

The resilience of common people never failed to astonish Arya. King's Landing had already begun recovering from its devastation with the arrival of the first ships into port after Daenarys' massacre. Everything was coated with ash and there was a horrible stink over the entire city, but the people had started to clear away the rubble and rebuild. Under the watchful eye of the Unsullied - the self-appointed police of the city now - Davos had focused on stemming the tide of filth and disease by clearing out the sewers and purifying the wells. Ashes were carted out of the city by the wagonful, and slowly commerce was returning. She supposed that the common folk - the ones without titles or houses or masters - didn't much care who ruled over them, so long as they were able to live out their lives. She almost envied them. 

Arya glanced back from the tent flaps at the huge man motionless on the pallet. What if he never recovered? Even if he woke up, would he be crippled? She knew he wouldn't like that at all. Still, she was certain saving him had been the right thing to do. His business may be finished, but his life had not, and it wasn't her choice to make. 

**

Arriving by carriage along with Bran and Brienne, Sansa was astounded by the devastation wrought upon Kings Landing. She’d spent so much time looking out from the Red Keep and wishing she could venture past the city walls, wishing she could go home. Now, she was heading back into the one place where she had sworn to never set foot again. It was not as bad as she thought, however; since the Red Keep was still primarily rubble, they had opted to meet in the Dragon Pit. That location at least spared her having to travel through the barely healed ruins of the city. 

Heading on foot while Brienne pushed Bran’s chair, she headed around a make-shift healing camp. Bran squinted at the maesters and others puttering about. “Stop,” he commanded in his misleadingly soft voice. “Our sister wishes to join us.” 

“Arya?” Sansa said, following his gaze to see her little sister already heading right for them. “Arya! What are you doing here? Are you all right?” Her sister seemed hale, although she did have a new scar on her forehead. 

"Why shouldn't I be here?" Arya replied, but smiled at her siblings and gave a nod to Brienne. 

“Are you hurt?” Sansa clarified, though clearly her sister was well enough. “What are you doing milling about the healing tents?” 

"Helping," Arya answered curtly. "There's a lot of hurt and wounded people here, you know." She didn't know why she suddenly shied away from revealing that she had been tending to the Hound. It might have been due to Sansa's fussing over her like their old septa; they had been through far worse than a little scratch, and neither of them were children anymore. 

Sansa looked visibly relieved. “I should know better than to think anything could stop you,” she said. “I’m sure they are grateful for your help. Do you think they can spare you for a bit? All of the lords and ladies have been summoned to this grand council. I would very like you by my side to represent the North. And we need to stand together for Jon’s sake. I’ll not have them sentence him to death for saving us all from a crazed tyrant.” 

She glanced back at the tent before nodding at her sister. "Of course." Although he had been improving, Sandor's condition probably wouldn't change significantly in her absence. 

“I’m glad you’re safe,” Sansa said as they fell in step with each other. “Assuming your list is now completed, will you return to Winterfell with us?” She had missed her sister more than she could have imagined. They had never been close as children due to their vastly differing interests. As women, however, their relationship was far more secure. She admired Arya and her resilience greatly. 

Arya's expression grew serious, making her look older. "Don't assume," she remarked quietly. "I didn't actually kill everyone on my list, you know; that was taken from me. And I removed one name," she added before going on. "When I left Winterfell, I wasn't planning on returning. I'm not sure what I'll do next, or where I'll go. I suppose it depends on the outcome of this council meeting." 

Sansa nodded, understanding that her sister would not appreciate being coerced into settling back home. “Gendry will be at the meeting,” she said, both as incentive and as something of a warning. If Arya did not want to see Gendry, then she could still back out. Alternatively, maybe Arya wanted to see Gendry and she might actually smile. 

"Of course, he's going to be there," retorted Arya. "He's a lord of his own house now, so I assumed he'd be participating." She hadn't told anyone of Gendry's proposal and her refusal of it; most of all, she didn't want to debate it with Sansa. She had been clear that she never intended to settle down as a lady of a house to Gendry and to everyone long before him. 

Sansa glanced at her and frowned. “No need to snap at me. I wasn’t certain if you’d left before or after his lordship was granted.” 

"After," Arya said, her tone a bit more kind. Sansa had obviously missed her and she had snuck away without telling her where she was going. She was fairly certain Sansa had suspected her plans, but that would only make her more worried. 

“Forget I mentioned it, then,” Sansa nodded. They came to the Dragon Pit and took their places; Bran in the middle with Sansa to his left and Arya to his right. Sansa did not know what to expect from this council. She knew she would not yield until her brother and Tyrion were freed. Jon was her cousin by blood, but he was still her brother and fellow Stark in her heart. Lord Tyrion deserved far better than to rot in a jail cell. 

As though he’d read her mind – which was entirely possible – Bran turned to her. “Don’t worry, Sansa. He’ll be all right,” he offered her, not specifying which ‘he’ he was speaking about. 

A canopied pavilion had been erected on the dais of the Pit, and the leaders of Westeros sat in the chairs in a half-circle, fidgeting with uneasy anticipation. Bran was the only one among them that was calm, but his expression was blank and distant, as it often was now. The Unsullied had taken King's Landing for themselves, under Daenarys' banner, when they had captured Jon Snow several weeks before. Despite working with Ser Davos for the sake of the people, the fate of Jon Snow and Tyrion Lannister had driven a wedge between the two factions, and it was now time for diplomacy and decisions. 

Grey Worm, grim and stone-faced, entered the yard leading a gaunt and ragged Tyrion along with him. Jon was nowhere to be seen, and Sansa had a moment's fear that they had lied about holding him prisoner but had killed him already. Words came hot from both sides, until Ser Davos spoke begging for peace. Only a king or queen could decide Jon's fate, and they didn't have either. 

Tyrion, exasperated, declared the obvious: as the most powerful leaders in Westeros, they needed to appoint a new one. Again, other than Bran, the assembled leaders shifted hesitatingly in their seats, glancing at each other, until Lord Edmure rose and stepped forward and began a flowery and long-winded speech. Sansa interrupted him, dismissing the very idea that he would be suitable for the position. Samwell's suggestion that the people choose their own leader was also met with derision and laughter. When it was remarked that perhaps Tyrion himself wanted the role, he declined...and suggested Bran was the most suited to it. Sansa and Arya glanced at each other. Of all of them, why Bran? 

Tyrion listed his reasons, and he did so eloquently. Bran was beyond any of them now, with his abilities to see all and knowledge of the entire history of Westeros. There would be no more monarchy of the Seven Kingdoms; Bran would not have children to whom the leadership would pass down; the wheel of dynasty would be broken at last. 

Every thought of this boggled Sansa's mind. That the choice of leader be given over to those already in power, for the future of all of the people of Westeros - she couldn't allow it. Even as each of the others gave their endorsement of Bran, she fought against it in her heart. "Little brother," she said at last, "you know I will always love you, but thousands of Northmen fought and died defending all of Westeros. They've seen too much and fought too hard to ever bend the knee again." Addressing all the assembly she continued, looking at Tyrion. "The North will remain an independent kingdom as it has been for a thousand years." 

Even as she said the words, she knew what she risked, but there had to be some other seat of power in Westeros, if only to balance it and keep it in check. And they deserved that much freedom, since some of their enemy was nature itself; an eternal war that would never cease. 

She hardly heard Tyrion's offering of kingship to Bran, or of Bran's acceptance, or of Bran appointing Tyrion to the position of King's Hand and the reasons for it being just. She heard Arya ask about Jon, and added her own query to her sister's, only now it was to Bran, King of the Six Kingdoms, who declared that instead of executing him, he would be banished to the Wall for life. She sat, lost in thought, as the others rose and left, one by one; as Brienne moved Bran down from the dais and away, and only looked up as Arya touched her shoulder. 

Arya leaned down to listen to Bran and then nodded, stepping over to Sansa. “Come on. We need to get back to the camp. There’s someone you’ll want to see.” 

“Someone I want to see?” Sansa echoed in question, though she followed, leaving Bran in Brienne’s capable hands. “I probably know most of the men here by sight, if not by name. I cannot think of anyone in the lot I’d actually want to see.” 

A small smile tugged at Arya's mouth. "You'll want to see this one, I promise." 

“If you say so,” Sansa said as they headed into the camp, past the outer three rings of tents. It seemed to Sansa that the closer to the center tent they came, the more severe the injuries became. Men on the outskirts were bandaged, but they seemed to be mostly up and about. By the time they reached the inner rings, there were men with missing limbs or with burns over a majority of their bodies, men who’d been blinded or literally struck dumb. As accustomed to violence and the aftermath thereof as she was, she still found herself averting her gaze, staring down at the ground fixedly. 

"Ah, there you are!" Maester Wolkun called out to the Stark sisters as they approached. Pulling up in front of Arya, he continued. "He's been stirring, but be warned: he still needs rest. See if he'll eat or drink, if you can; it will only help him regain his strength." 

Confused, Sansa trailed after Arya’s renewed step to the mouth of a yellow tent. Inside, she came to an abrupt stop upon seeing the large man lying on the pallet. “Sa-,” she said, just barely stopping herself. “Clegane,” came out instead. He was battered and bruised and looked half-dead. Her heart leapt into her throat, cutting off her air for a moment, fearing him dead. Air rushed back into her lungs when she realized he was indeed moving, albeit slowly. 

"Lady Stark," Sandor answered in a raspy whisper more gravelly than normal. "Wolf girl," he added, addressing Arya. He was still a mess, but it was the first coherent thing he had said in weeks. 

“About time you started making sense,” Arya said, though her tone of voice was light. “You’ve been in and out of it for weeks.” She sat on a makeshift stool near his side, something she was clearly used to sitting in. 

So, this was why Arya had been in the healing camp. She’d been tending to Sandor Clegane. Arya had given her the barebones explanation of their unforeseen journey together, so it was no surprise that her little sister was somewhat fond of the man. Sansa took a deep breath and drew closer. “I’d wondered where you got to. You left Winterfell without saying goodbye,” she teasingly chided him, keeping her voice soft and gentle so he would know she wasn’t actually scolding him. 

"I had urgent business here," he replied, glancing over at Arya. His vision was much clearer now, and the thoughts in his head weren't a jumbled mess anymore, but he could feel how weak and wasted his body had become. It irked him. Appetite had returned with the healing, and so had the need to tend to his own bodily functions, together with a grumpy impatience. But he reveled in the sight of Sansa Stark. Having been deprived of sight for so long, all colors seemed brighter to his eyes now, and she was lovely, with her dark honey hair, bright eyes like robin's eggs, skin like milk and apples, lips like ripe berries... He shook himself out of his reverie, abruptly aware that he had been staring. He was hungrier than he had thought and his stomach rumbled in confirmation. 

Arya smiled, standing up. “I’ll go get you some stew. Maester Wolkan said to try and get some food and water into you.” 

She quickly left, leaving Sandor and her sister alone. Sansa claimed the stool for herself, arranging her skirts neatly as she sat. “What in the world happened to you? You look like you’ve been through all seven hells.” Of course, she knew he must have come back to kill the Mountain. She still remembered watching Sandor and Gregor fight at the Hand’s Tournament and she’d been almost certain that The Mountain would cut his brother down. If Sandor was alive, she was willing to bet that his monstrous brother was dead. 

"Aye, I have been," he agreed. "This whole damned city has. But I had my own fair part of it." Gods, he wished she hadn't seen him like this, wasted away and weaker than a kitten! Couldn't be helped, though. 

"My business is finished, though, and I suppose I'm lucky to have survived it at all. It was a near thing; if your little sister hadn't wandered through the flames, well...I would be just as dead as the rest." 

“I will be forever grateful to her for finding you,” Sansa nodded, reaching out impulsively to touch his bandaged hand. “I would have most distressed to hear of your passing.” The words were very formal, but her tone was warm and sincere. She might have been keeping up appearances for anyone who might wander by the tent opening, but the way she leaned closer to him and touched his hand was for no one but him. 

He regarded her hand on his silently for a moment. She had always been a princess, a rare example of true nobility, despite her innocent naivety when he had met her. She had been a tiny, vulnerable girl back then, so ill-suited for the cruelty and violence of the world outside of her home in the North. Yet she had weathered it all; she had survived it and learned from it, and sat in front of him as regally as any queen had in the Great Hall. He wished he had known Ned and Catlyn Stark better, but he hadn't had that chance. 

“Are you in pain? It looks like the Maester has left some medicines here for you. I’m no healer, but I know milk of the poppy when I see it.” She gestured to the makeshift table nearby, which held a rather large collection of herbs and tinctures, bandages and other medical supplies. The sight of such a variety of remedies made her swallow hard. How badly was he injured? Would he make a full recovery? He’d already had a bit of a limp from breaking his leg prior. She dared not think of what it would do to his outlook if he were further hindered. 

He waved the suggestion away with his other hand. "No, no more of that, especially fucking milk of the bloody poppy," he growled. "I'm done with all that. Stuff makes me stupid. I'll be all right once I'm off this bed and out of this place." A sudden thought occurred to him. "Why are you in King's Landing, anyway? I'm sure you didn't come all the way from Winterfell just to wish me well." 

“Much has happened since you were injured. Not all of it good, I’m afraid,” she sighed. As simply and succinctly as she could, she updated Sandor on all that had transpired since his fall; Daenerys’ victory and madness, her impassioned speech about conquering all the world, Tyrion’s arrest, Jon’s dilemma and subsequent assassination of Dany, his imprisonment… all culminating to the gathering of the great houses to select a new king. 

“Bran will be a good king, although I’m not sure I would like being called Bran the Broken, if I were him,” she finished the story with a wry smile. “He seems very certain that the Northmen will accept me as their liege-lady despite my being a woman. There’s always been a King in the North. Never a Queen in the North.” 

"They'll accept you," Sandor assured her. "You'll be a good queen." He believed it: she had learned a great deal of the game from those around her, good and bad. The fact that she chose independence for her people rather than become a vassal of Westeros showed her wisdom and caring for her subjects: she was of the North; one of their own, and their family was well regarded. 

Somehow, Sandor Clegane’s belief that she would be a good queen soothed her more than Bran’s. “I hope to be. I certainly have learned a lot about how not to be a good queen. All I have to do is think of what Cersei or Joffrey would do and then do the opposite,” she jested softly. 

"There's more to it than that, of course," Sandor pointed out. "But it's a good start." With a groan, he struggled to sit up. At least his head wasn't spinning like a wagon wheel anymore. He couldn't wait to get out this tent, this camp, this miserable city, this whole fucking place! His stomach growled again, much to his embarrassment. It occurred to him that he had nothing left of his possessions: he wasn't even sure of the remains of his armor or weapons survived, and he wouldn't consider what had happened to Stranger, his horse... He was painfully aware that he truly hadn't contemplated outliving a confrontation with his brother, Gregor. His entire life had been focused on the goal of killing him, above everything else, knowing full well Gregor was larger, stronger and far more vicious than he could ever be. He had lived and killed and survived for that and that alone - and now? 

“Easy. Take it slow.” She touched his shoulder, her palm flat on his shirt, her fingers touching bare skin. Urging a man like Sandor Clegane to be kind to himself was practically useless, she realized. Her other hand splayed against his back, between his shoulder blades, gently helping him sit up fully. “Arya should be back with that stew any moment. Come to think of it, I’m hungry too,” she admitted. 

His gaze seemed turned inward and she frowned; moving her hand from his shoulder, up to touch his chin, turning his gaze towards her. “Copper for your thoughts?” she asked gently. 

"They're not worth even that," he grumbled. Her touch was soft as silk, gentle and warm; a lady's touch. When had he ever felt that sort of touch? Never, most likely. He remembered the look of terror on her face when she had first beheld his half-burned face; now, her stare was unwavering and she reached for him. What horrors had she seen, that he was no longer the monster he had been to her? Or maybe she sees the reality of the man before her now: weak, broken, and lost. 

Arya came bustling back into the tent with a tray of steaming bowls and a large loaf of bread. "I figured I'd bring enough for all of us," she remarked. "Stewed chicken and bread, fresh from the oven. That's what took so long; waiting for the bread, and finding the chicken wasn't so easy. Thought it would be better than fish stew and I didn't even consider bowls of brown. Nasty stuff!” 

Sansa sat back primly, though she glanced apologetically at him, silently implying that she was moving back only because her sister had returned with food. “After weeks on the road, bread from an actual oven will be a delight.” She took the piece of bread that Arya handed her and passed it on to Sandor. Hopefully, he would be able to handle solid food. After being mostly unconscious for so long, he had to be hurting for sustenance. “Just let me know if you need a little help,” she added, keeping her voice low. 

To divert attention from her offer, she turned back to Arya. “Bowls of brown? What on earth is a bowl of brown? It even sounds horrid!” 

"It's the slop that the pot-shops feed the commoners in Flea Bottom. Not even the dragonfire could destroy those dirty old kettles," Arya informed her, handing out the bowls. Sandor tore off bits of bread and nibbled slowly while his bowl cooled. although he wanted wine, he supposed he should start with water. 

Sansa made a brief, disgusted face. “Thank the gods that we don’t have to eat that. Although, I suppose beggars can’t be choosers. The way back home will be much more pleasant with some company other than my own worries.” 

Arya paused, looking down into her bowl thoughtfully. “I’m not going back North.” 

“What?” Sansa looked alarmed. “I don’t understand. Where will you go?” 

“What’s West of Westeros?” Arya smiled. “No one knows. That’s where all the maps stop. I want to find out what’s out there.” 

Sansa swallowed tightly, looking down at the ground to hide the sudden threat of tears. She wanted to demand that Arya stay. That she needed her sister. Brienne had already agreed to be Bran’s commander of the Kingsguard. Podrick was staying with Brienne. 

Bran had graciously annulled her marriage to Tyrion and he was staying as Hand of the King. She was running out of trusted allies very quickly! Still, she couldn’t find it in herself to guilt Arya. “I wish you would stay; but I understand that I cannot hope to tame your spirit. I will ask you to be careful though.” 

Sandor ate in silence, witnessing their exchange, Arya's decision didn't surprise him; neither did Sansa's reaction to it. In fact, the idea of sailing off into the unknown held a certain appeal. He considered hiring on a sellsword, but the foolishness of that was quite clear to him in his weakened state: he couldn't defend himself, let alone anyone else. He should probably make his way back to the Clegane holdings, as the sole heir. He had no idea if anyone still occupied his familial house, or if it was deserted, or even if it still stood: his brother had inherited everything and he had fled the place as soon as he could. Or he could simply get up, walk out of the tent and continue walking wherever his legs would take him for as long as they would take him, he thought in disgust. Which likely wouldn't be for very long. 

“What about you, Sandor? What will you do once you’ve healed enough to be moved? I imagine the healers will be breaking camp soon to send everyone on their way,” Arya asked him. Sansa looked to him as well, curious as to his plan. 

"Likely they will, but I've no plans. Hadn't expected to need 'em." he told them. He drank some water before going back to sopping up the remains of the stew with the bread's crust. It was good to have something solid in his belly once again. 

Sansa bit her lip thoughtfully. “You could come back North with me. Maester Wolkan’s already treating you and it would be wise to have him continue to do so, as he is the Grand Maester of Winterfell. And, well…” she paused, taking a deep breath, “… I find I am rather in need of some familiar faces.” 

Sandor Clegane had never wanted to go North ever again, in all honesty. The cold alone was miserable, and to be closer to that nightmare of the White Walkers and Wildlings was not one of his wishes. But when Sansa asked for company, with that forlorn look in her lovely eyes, he felt that he should at least escort her. Not that he'd be a proper escort at the moment: he wondered if he could even ride upright for any length of time. He certainly did require more of Maester Wolkan's attentions. 

Arya raised an eyebrow at his apparent lack of response. “John’s being forced to rejoin the Night’s Watch. More than likely, he’ll strike up with the Wildlings again. The North will be downright peaceful compared to the Six Kingdoms. They’ll still all be scrabbling to figure out who’s in charge of each kingdom, new lords to be named. It’ll be chaotic down here. But the North, well…” she shrugged, taking another bite of stew-laden bread. “… we’re more pragmatic. Rebuild as quick as we can, preserve the food stores, stay warm.” 

Sansa nodded. “Say what you will about our supposedly cold demeanor; we know well the best ways to keep warm.” 

Sandor gave a quick smile at that observation, shaking his head. "Neither of you are cold, usually; I've learned that much." He considered. "See what the Maester says. I've little interest in going anywhere else, and I don't even know if I still have horse or clothes on my back, but I'll escort you to the North if you'll have me, lady Stark...or do I call you my Grace, now?" 

“I think you only need to refer to me as ‘Your Grace’ during formal occasions,” she assured him. “We’ll happily replace any lost belongings, though I suspect your horse is milling about the campsite somewhere. He’s a black destrier, isn’t he?” 

“Courser,” Arya corrected her sister. “And, yes, he’s around. Kept pushing his nose into the tent and biting anyone that tried to stop him. Damn near took my face off once when I tried to run away from you before. That horse is gentle as a lamb for you, but he’ll happily kick the head of off anyone else. Leave it to you to have such a mercurial fucking horse. I hear he nigh near killed the unlucky farrier that tried to geld him.” 

“Well, you can hardly blame him for that one,” Sansa laughed softly at these tales about Sandor’s stallion. 

"That's Stranger, all right," Sandor laughed. He was feeling much better, now that his belly was full. 

“Somehow, it doesn’t surprise me at all that you have such an aggressive, yet devoted steed,” Sansa smiled. “I’ll make certain we have a way to transport you as comfortably as possible, in the event that the Maester recommends against riding.” 

Sansa and Arya took their leave, to go and make their preparations while Sandor rested. After a time, Maester Wolkan returned and was delighted to discover his patient up and moving about, albeit slowly and with a great deal of effort. He was equally astonished to witness the most unfriendly horse in the whole camp - and probably the whole Westeros - nuzzle against that same patient like the gentlest gelding. 

Despite that, he recommended Clegane avoid a long journey on horseback, and certainly not walking. Sandor frowned at this bit of advice, but his bones ached from the simple act of moving about the tent and trying to perform the most basic of hygiene routines. Stranger would just have to endure it by his side. 

As soon as it became apparent that Sandor would need a more comfortable way back North, she set about making preparations. Her carriage was fine for her perhaps, but there was no way a man as large as Sandor Clegane would ever be comfortable cramming himself onto a carriage bench. She rounded up some carpenters to amend a four-wheeled wagon, building a sort of closed canopy over it, to be draped in fur-lined canvas for warmth. Inside, a large feather bed and warm blankets would keep him comfortable for the ride. Even if they encountered a snow storm or two along the way, it would be warm enough within if there were two people. 

Sandor frowned at the sight of it, hoping no-one would see him enter the thing. It was like being a pampered pet, to travel this way. The necessity of the arrangement made it all the more irritating. He clambered aboard without protest, however, and sank into the padded and insulated interior with some gratitude. Stranger snorted and pawed the ground in frustration. "Oh, fuck off, you daft bugger," Sandor growled at him, but not in anger. "At least you won't have to carry my fucking broken body into that frozen hell." 

Sansa appeared at the opening of the wagon. Or at least her head did since Stranger’s bulk took up most of the entrance. “I hope it’s comfortable. I tried to anticipate what would be easiest for you,” she said with an apologetic smile. “I know you hate this… thank you for letting me fuss over you a little.” 

Stranger chose that moment to huff and flick his tail at her, though he made no move to bite or kick or even push her. Instinctively, Sansa lifted her hand and stroked the side of his neck. “You must be the hell horse I’ve heard so much about. Handsome creature, aren’t you?” 

Being talked to in a soft voice made the stallion flick his ears forward. “Don’t try to butter him up. Flattery doesn’t work on beasts,” Sandor said, bemused by Sansa’s attempt to sweeten Stranger’s mood. 

The horse promptly proved his master mistaken, gently pushing his huge head into Sansa’s chest, burring with contentment. Sansa laughed, petting his ears. “There’s a good boy. You look after your master for me, all right?” 

Once she had left, Sandor glared at Stranger with fake outrage. “Traitor.” 

Stranger turned his head sideways and brayed, eyes wide. 

**

Once Sansa was mounted on her own horse, a pretty grey-dapple mare, the entire caravan of Northmen finally started for home. Sansa wisely kept her hood up despite the relatively mild weather, knowing the bright color of her hair was quite a beacon among the black and grey and white of the company. She didn’t want to give any early assassins a chance to pinpoint her. She had not yet named a Sworn Shield or a Queensguard, but several of Jon’s most loyal soldiers were flanking her in lieu of more formal protection. 

It was one more thing she needed to consider before she was crowned. Several of the Northern families had been killed out; the Boltons, the Karstarks, the Mormonts, the Umbers. No one was currently tending their keeps, which meant the surrounding villages had no forces to protect them. With the recent upheavals both North and South, mercenaries and thieves and poachers would be out in force. She would have to select new lords and ladies who were trustworthy and would take care of their people. 

She had to appoint her own version of a Small Council; a Hand of the Queen, a Master of War, a Grand Maester, a Master of Coin, a Master of Whisperers. She had very little idea of who among her people would be suited to such roles. Maester Wolkan had very much impressed her, and would make a competent Grand Maester, she thought. But for all other roles, she was at a near complete loss. 

Except for her Sworn Shield and Captain of her Queensguard; she already knew exactly who she wanted in that position: Sandor Clegane. First, the man needed to heal and regain his former strength; which she had no doubt he would. He was a stubborn bear of a man and would use his hot temper to fuel himself through recovery. Yes, she knew he would make a fearsome Queensguard and one she trusted without question. The real question was whether or not he would agree to such a thing. He had not been thrilled when appointed to Joffrey’s Kingsguard, but she suspected that was more because he hated Joffrey. With any luck, he felt quite differently about her. 

To say nothing of the fact that, as her Sworn Shield, he would be by her side a majority of the time. The thought alone of him protecting her so extensively pleased her. He would never hurt her, nor would he ever allow anyone else to hurt her. His reputation was still quite fierce. No one in their right mind would try to harm her with Sandor Clegane at her arm. 

Perhaps once they were all back in Winterfell, she could have the new smith forge him new armor. He needed a new helm as well. Not the snarling hound design though. Clever and ferocious though it was, she knew he didn’t particularly care for being called “dog”, which the helm might provoke. A wolf though, that would be appropriate, as he would be in the service of the Stark name. It occurred to her that Sandor already commonly wore her house’s colors of black and grey and white. He’d even eschewed the bright golden armor of the other guards in Joff’s retinue, preferring to remain in his well-used steel armor. 

Well, coming up with dark armor that suited her chosen Shield should be an easy task. The wolf helm however would require an expert artisan. Perhaps she could send Gendry word and see if he could do it or if he knew someone he could recommend. 

**

Being propped up like a wobbly infant on the back of a wagon was not improving Sandor's mood at all, but it did give him a fairly clear view of their surroundings through the opened window panels as they journeyed. The days were long and often tedious, with grey overcast skies and a growing chill in the air as they made their way northward. Every so often Stranger would peer in as if checking on him, snorting. The maester would also check on his grumpy patient, changing his bandages and splints, dosing him with so many potions and mixtures that he thought he might drown in them. at least he no longer needed the milk of the poppy: he detested the drowsiness and odd visions it provoked with a passion. All he really wanted was wine, and lots of it - although it made his head spin more than before - and food. He was ravenous. Mostly he slept, if only to allow his body to heal. 

After almost two weeks of rather clear weather, Nature decided to throw something stronger at them. At midday, snow started to fall, quickly dusting the fields and slopes around them in every direction. A mere dusting swiftly became a substantial amount of snow on the ground. The wind kicked up by evening, sending spirals of biting snow into the face of anyone unfortunate enough to not have a heavy hood on. 

The entire caravan was forced to stop earlier than they might have with fine weather. The men set about putting up tents and other temporary shelters as quickly as possible. The horses all gathered together and kept their heads down. Wolkan, his thick cloak pulled close, had to speak rather loudly to be heard. “My lady, I’ve secured Clegane as best as I can, but it is still quite cold in there. I don’t dare try to move him in this ice and snow. His bones have only just knitted and one slip could prove disastrous.” 

Sansa bit her bottom lip. “Do not worry, Maester. I will see to him.” 

Wolkan nodded, a hint of a smile peeking through his shivering. He knew full well what she meant to do. Northerners were nothing if not imminently practical, especially when it came to the matter of keeping warm. “Keep close to him, my lady. You both will need warmth tonight.” 

Sandor was practically buried beneath furs and looked like a sad dog indeed. The maester had plied him with bowl after bowl of broth to warm and nourish him, but he was unaccustomed to the sudden onset of such cold and he was dismayed to find his thin, wasted body shivering. They were so close to Winterfell! He supposed at least if they were forced to camp for a few days, he wouldn't have to deal with the constant rocking of the damned wagon. He wished for a moment that he was a bear that could just sleep through the whole ordeal. 

Sansa hoisted herself onto the back of the wagon and crawled inside, wishing she’d had the foresight to wear thick trousers instead of her woolen winter gown. She managed to get inside and secure the flaps down so the wind could not tear at them. Once she’d set her wet cloak and boots aside, she felt around for the edge of the furs and blankets, slipping under them as soon as she could. Although he was shivering, he was warm to the touch and Sansa slowly pulled herself close to him. 

“Shh…” she whispered to him. “It’s all right. We can keep each other warm.” She slid her arms around him, drawing him closer. 

"What in the Seven Hells are you doing?" he hissed between chattering teeth. 

His gruff tone almost made her lose her nerve and make up some stupid story about mistaking the wagon for a different shelter. Instead, she took a steeling breath and narrowed her eyes despite it being too dark for him to actually see her expression. “Keeping you warm,” she replied, using a slightly more authoritative voice. “Body heat’s the best way. Give it a few minutes and we’ll both be warm as toast.” 

Her hands crept along his side, wary of putting too much pressure on him and hurting him. A little shifting and fighting with her skirts and she managed to curl herself against him, his uninjured arm under her head while his other arm rested about her waist. Her right arm was tucked tight in-between them and her left wrapped around his arm, allowing her to stroke his back. Her head tucked neatly under his chin. 

Despite the direct contact, the gesture came across as pragmatic rather than romantic, and he began to relax. It did become warmer, and his shivering slowed. 

She resisted the urge to say that she’d told him so, but did allow herself a small, triumphant smile. Her hand played idly along his back, tracing the patterns of scars she could feel through his shirt. Though he was still somewhat thin from his long weeks spent unconscious and unmoving, he was gaining weight back and muscle tone would follow. “You seem to be healing well,” she said, fingers gliding over the edge of his injured shoulder blade. She could feel the slightly thickened bit where his bones were knitting back together. “It shouldn’t be long before you’ll be able to walk and ride again.” 

"I fucking hope so," he grumbled, before realizing how ungrateful he sounded. He shifted, wrapping the innermost blanket tighter around them both. "I am healing well, thanks to you and yours. Thank you," he added. "It's not that I don't appreciate it, mind you; it's just...unexpected, I suppose. Didn't expect to survive the Mountain or the fall from the Keep, didn't expect to make it through those fires..." He shuddered, remembering the heat, flames, choking fumes and stinging embers. "...or through my injuries. And I didn't care." He glanced down at her. "I truly didn't care, you understand?" 

She swallowed hard, resisting the sting of tears. Hearing him speak with such raw despair in his voice cut her to the core. She had long known that he cared little about other people dying. To know that he cared even less if he died caused her heart to ache for him. “Oh, Sandor…” she whispered sliding her hand up to smooth back his hair, fingertips grazing along his scarred skin. “I understand this kind of hopelessness, I do.” 

Sandor slowly shook his head. "You can't know it," he argued. "Not this kind. For all my sorry fucking life, I've felt nothing but contempt for anything but killing and death. I made myself mean. All I wanted was to kill my own brother and have my petty vengeance for his cruel betrayal; I had to be as monstrous and wicked as he was. Nothing else mattered to me. They could fancy that I was a vicious dog with loyalty to whomever held my leash; a hound that would hunt down any prey once given the scent; I didn't give a fuck, so long as I would be able to confront that ugly, soulless beast that was my brother. Everything I did was for that; nothing would stop me, and I didn't doubt for a moment that Gregor would kill me. Didn't fucking matter, so long as I killed him first." 

“I don’t know it… I don’t know what it is like to hate the vehemently for that long, but I do understand it. As I understand Arya’s list of people she wanted to kill. I have known betrayal and pain and hatred. I may have only tasted the poison of it, while you have drunk it deep.” Her fingers pressed more firmly against the scarred edge of his cheekbone, learning the furrows and crags. “You’ve survived the poison and no longer have it to sustain you, like a man who’s become a slave to milk of the poppy long past needing it. I might not know it, but I understand it.” 

His eyes held hers in the dim confines of the wagon. "I know you do, little bird," he replied gently. "You've been through far too much for decency, but you didn't drink that poison by choice. I did. If there was any fairness and justice in the world, I should have been nothing more than a blackened smear of bloody jelly on the side of the Red Keep like my brother. I would have welcomed it. Dying's easy; it's living that's the hard part." Having nothing to do during his recovery and the journey North, he had often lapsed into despondent reverie. Why he was sharing all this, he didn't know - perhaps it was only that she was his sole company during the trip. He was used to a solitary, friendless existence; he even relished the few moments each day he was allowed to exit his transport and limp over to some secluded area to relieve himself. This odd warmth and close proximity of another, especially this particular other, was alien to him but he found himself welcoming it. 

She tightened her arms around him in an embrace. “I don’t believe dying or living is particularly easy. I have contemplated death more times than I can count. I’ve resigned myself to living out my fate as a caged bird. I flat out told Jon that if he lost the battle with Ramsey that I would take my own life rather than go back.” Tears threatened again, but she forced herself to speak through them. The ghost of Ramsey’s hands on her flesh made her shudder and cling to him more tightly. 

Instinctively he enveloped her shoulders with his one good arm, absently stroking her back like he was calming Stranger. "You're not a caged bird anymore, and everyone dies in the end," he pointed out. "It's just that sometimes living is harder than death, or so we think. It's certainly not like those songs. You know that now; you outlived your tormentors; so have I. The difference is you have more to live for, but I'm just...lost." 

“You are not lost. You are with me.” She drew in a deep breath and leaned in the dark, pressing her lips to his in a gentle, uncertain, but very sincere kiss. 

He almost instinctively moved back, but went still instead. He felt weirdly detached from the contact, but he wasn't enough of a fool to deny his enjoyment of it. She was everything he felt he was not: elegant, soft, warm, sweet... but they did share the memories of betrayal and torment, and a common suffering. He felt a rare tenderness for her as he kissed her back, a gentle exploration of their lips together, punctuated with deep, wanting breaths. 

Her fingers curled in his hair, holding his mouth strong against hers. When they parted for breath, she couldn’t help but press soft kisses along his scarred jawline. “Stay with me, Sandor,” she whispered against his skin. “Once you are healed, I wish you to be my Sworn Shield and the Lord Commander of my Queensguard.” 

"I'm too broken to be your Lord commander," he responded, "There's no telling if I'll ever be strong enough again for that. And I won't be sworn, or anointed, or any of that nonsense. But I've been your shield for years now, little bird." He leaned his head against her brow. "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't planning on staying with you." Speaking the words only confirmed the conclusion he had reached some time before; having survived his revenge, he needed another purpose, and it all seemed to point to the young woman in his arms, in whatever way she wished. Sandor was the last one who could be called a believer: he certainly wasn't a religious man in any way... but he did wonder if there was any meaning to life, or something greater than his previous hateful existence. He still didn't know, and truthfully didn't care, but the solid reality of Sansa's presence gave him a renewed hope for a kind of life that before he hadn't even contemplated. 

“You are not too broken,” she insisted. “You will heal. And your strength will return to you. You’re too stubborn to be any other way.” She tilted her head, kissing him sweetly once more. “In the North, we expect our knights to uphold their vows. And whether you make the vows or not, I will make them to you. I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.” 

"You shouldn't be so free with your vows, Your Grace; you might wind up in one of your stories." Still he was touched by the gesture. "Anyone else, I'd doubt their sincerity, but I know you speak in earnest. Let's see what happens when we reach Winterfell, eh? But for now, you're stuck with me, Sansa Stark." 

"Fair enough," she allowed. Fingers tangling in his hair once more, she drew him into a kiss. She was more confident this time, moving her lips over his with tender purpose. 

He lingered on the kiss, longer than was perhaps proper, but he wanted to cherish the act. Reluctantly he drew back. "Think we're warm enough, don't you?" he remarked. "Should sleep while we can." He shifted to cradle her alongside of him, both wrapped in a nest of quilts and furs. It wasn't prudishness or reticence on his part; he truly was tired and too weak for all his heart's willingness and desire. 

She cuddled against him with a small smile. Even in the middle of his recovery, still weak and thin, the feel of his arms around made her feel safe, as did the thump of his heartbeat beneath her hand where it now rested on his chest. That feeling of security quickly lulled her to sleep. 

**

The storm passed, leaving the party to break through the drifts on the road to allow the passage of the wagons in to the wake of the horses' hoof prints. It was slow going, but the weather began to improve somewhat. It was still cold, with the frozen earth rimed with frost where the snow had melted, but the sun shown in an ice-blue sky. 

On her dapple mare, Sansa trailed back instead of leading up front with her bannermen. She had been splitting her time between the carriage and riding her horse, though neither was the perfect mode of transportation if she was completely honest. After the night spent in Sandor’s arms, nothing else seemed half as comfortable or warm. Wolkan had given Sandor clearance to attempt to ride, though he stressed that he should not spend all day riding and would have to take breaks in the wagon. 

Sansa spotted him easily atop Stranger, the giant horse and equally giant man providing a striking contrast to those walking or riding much smaller steeds. She pulled off to the side and waited for him to catch up, smiling in the sunlight. “There you are. I cannot tell you how good it is to see you in the saddle.” 

Sandor flashed his rare genuine smile. He was still in pain, but pain was a familiar thing. He had taken the maester's warning seriously and paced his forays from the wagon's confines, much to Stranger's disgust. He probably looked like death, but he didn't care: the crisp air felt good in his healing lungs, and he was pleased that he felt stronger with each passing day. Seeing Sansa on horseback, a proud and steady lady, the winter sunlight making her hair gleam like polished copper, warmed him in a new way. "It's good to be on horseback again," he admitted, as they trotted along together. He couldn't manage a gallop quite yet, although he was certain Stranger wanted to race down the road free as the wind. 

“Perhaps Maester Wolkan will give you leave to have some lunch outside with me when stop for a rest at mid-day, rather than hustling you right back to the wagon,” Sansa mused, looking forward to spending every minute she could with him now that she was more or less on control of what she chose to do with herself. Stealing into his bed once it got dark was all well and good, but it felt a bit like she was hiding her affection for the man. This would at least show him and everyone else that Sandor was not along with them because she pitied him or some other nonsense. 

Sandor gave a non-committal shrug. He had never been a social creature and didn't plan on changing now, but to enjoy the daylight with Sansa, he could bear it. He wasn't used to Stranger behaving so well around another person, either, so there was something to be said for that. 

She smiled, reaching over to touch his sleeve. Stranger flicked his tail and nickered at her, making her laugh gently. “Oh, don’t go getting jealous, Stranger,” she teased the stallion gently, petting his neck. Her touch made the horse shake his mane happily. “You have a very proud stallion” she commented to Sandor, shaking her head indulgently. 

Sansa’s mare chose that moment to snort softly and take a nip at Stranger’s neck, teeth barely grazing him. “Jonquil!” she exclaimed, tugging on the reins. “That’s not very nice now, young lady.” 

Sandor gave a barking laugh. "Asking for trouble, that one," he remarked with a quick grin. 

Jonquil snuffled softly. “I think she’s flirting with him,” Sansa mused as she watched her normally placid mare attempt to capture Stranger’s attention. 

"You don't want Stranger's attention, you idiot horse," Sandor declared to Jonquil, but he said it with humor. Silly creature - even if she were in heat, it wasn't a good idea to allow Stranger near her. 

Soon enough, the caravan stopped for a bit of respite. Sansa dismounted, looking about the get her bearings. A small copse of evergreen trees stood slightly off the road, offering a welcome glimpse of green among all of the white and grey. 

“Your Grace, a bit of food has been prepared for you. Would you like it in your carriage?” a brown-haired handmaiden asked softly. 

“No, thank you, Grilde. Although I would appreciate it if some of valets could set up two chairs and small table over by those trees. Ser Clegane and I would like to take the midday meal together. And, bring an ewer of the red, please.” 

"I'm not a 'ser'," Sandor reminded her as he gingerly dismounted. Even though he was vastly improved, he wasn't about to be foolish and risk damaging his still-healing bones. He fiddled with the bridle as an excuse to watch Sansa while he stretched and tested his footing. 

“Hush,” she smiled at him. “You’ve saved my life more than once. You’ve saved Arya’s life more times than she would ever care to admit. You might as well be a knight, vows or not. I am the Queen of the North and if I say you are to be called ‘ser’, then you will be.” 

Bemused, he shook his head with a tight smile. "As you say, your Grace," he answered. "Call me what you like, but I'll not be a ser until your coronation and you make me one yourself." 

“We have an accord then,” she smiled, heading over to where the servants had set up the table and chairs as she’d requested. The wind tossed her bright hair about, her cloak and skirts fluttering graceful, making her look for the briefest moment like a wild creature of the forest rather than a proper young queen. More precisely, she would always be both, a true wolf queen. 

Sandor found himself arrested by the sight, before glancing away with a small cough. Sansa had always been pretty even when she had arrived at King's Landing; to him it had been almost unbearable, that prettiness. Her beauty was a distraction then; it made him ache just to look at her, knowing that she was so besotted with her fantasy of court life that she couldn't see others' cruel wickedness. Sansa was just... good, and he knew what happened to such people. And it had happened, but she had survived it without becoming as ugly and mean as her tormentors; she had become stronger and wiser and surer of herself, instead. She wasn't a trapped little lark anymore; the little bird of King's Landing was full-fledged and free. 

Sansa sat in one of the chairs, smoothing her skirts so they would not drag in the frozen mud. Looking up at him expectantly, she gestured to the other chair. Sandor stood off a little way, giving her a moment to take him in. He was still every bit as tall as she remembered, though she had not seen him upright on his own feet in some time. Though he was still clearly being cautious in his movements, he had regained much of his former bulk, his shoulders and chest once again broad with muscle. “Have a seat. Food and drink should be along shortly,” she said, looking down to cover up her blush. 

Sandor settled onto the chair with care. "It's funny," he remarked wryly, "I once offered to bring you back to Winterfell, and here you're bringing me there, instead." 

“Under far more comfortable circumstances,” she added, nodding at the servant that brought over their meal and set it out for them. She leaned forward, pouring wine for the both of them and offering him one. “In a way, although it might have saved both of us some pain, it’s probably a good thing I did not go with you. If I had, you would have delivered me to my mother and brother and I would have been present at the Red Wedding. Either I would have been killed with them, or Walder Frey would have sold me back to the Lannisters. And you, you might never have found Arya and protected her. She wouldn’t tell me anything directly, but I know she learned from you.” 

He shook his head and drank from his cup. "She learned some from me, but not enough to be what she is now; that she learned somewhere else," he commented. "I don't regret all that; what's done is done, and it's all worked out, it seems." 

Sansa nodded, sipping her own wine delicately. “So… what did happen to you between when you left King’s Landing and when you turned up again at Winterfell? Traveling with Arya only seems to account for a small portion of that time. And she seemed fairly certain that she’d left you for dead.” 

"I very nearly was." He recounted his brief time under the care of the septon Ray and what had happened afterward, sparing her some of the gorier details. 

"You sound as though you greatly admired this Septon Ray. I am sorry he was killed in such a senseless way," she offered, touching his arm gently. "I will be forever grateful to him for bringing you back to yourself. And for answering one my prayers." Sandor's questioning look prompted her to explain. "When I was praying for the safety of everyone during the Blackwater, you included... I asked the Mother to keep you safe... and to gentle your rage." She took a deep breath, cheeks turning pink with something akin to embarrassment at how childish that sounded now. 

"Gentle my rage," he echoed. He supposed it had been gentled, now that his brother was dead. It wouldn't bring Septon Ray or his flock back, of course, but the soldier-turned-religious leader had made more of an impact on him than he had allowed himself to admit. It had taken some time to catch to him, too; for all of his adult life, Sandor had made his brother's death his sole mission, and didn't care about much else aside from that goal... until Sansa. 

“You do seem far calmer and, frankly, less drunk than you used to be. I haven’t forgotten your fondness for wine. Now you’re sitting here with a cup of Dornish red in front of you and you haven’t immediately attempted to drown yourself in it.” She leaned forward to take a sip from her own goblet, raising it up towards him in a casual sort of toast. “I think I prefer you sober… although I may actually miss your growling.” 

"I can drain the pitcher and bark the rest of the way to Winterfell, if it would amuse you," he said with a wolfish grin, raising his cup in turn. It was true that wine had been his way to drown out his bitterness and misery in the past, numbing his heart and mind from memories and emotions he didn't care to keep. More recently the stupefying medicines administered to him for healing had dulled the need for wine, but it hadn't helped with his recall while he had been in that paralyzing twilight state. Enjoying the drink was a newer experience, but the quality of the wine was good, and the company even better. 

“Woof,” she said with a completely serious tone, though her smile gave her away. Was she actually teasing Sandor Clegane? The blush came roaring back and she had to take another quick sip of her wine to try and cover it up. “I rather like your voice in general, although I know you are not a talkative man by nature. More’s the pity.” 

He actually laughed. "Nobody's ever wanted to hear my yapping, I can promise you that! I can't sing worth shit, and I've no talent for storytelling or fancy speeches. I'm afraid you'll have to look for a bard or minstrel elsewhere, your Grace." 

She laughed as well, pleased beyond measure that she had made him laugh so genuinely. “No, no… I don’t mean like that. I mean, I just like your normal speaking voice. I won’t be asking you to sing songs for me or recite poetry. I mean that I like what we’re doing right now; just talking.” 

"Aye, conversation is good with the right company," he agreed. "Still not very good at it, myself, though. Suppose I'll have to practice." 

“I suppose we both will. I’ve not exactly had anyone close by to chatter away to, like I did as a child. I’m not even certain what idle adults talk about. Boring things, I imagine.” She sat back in her chair, at ease with Sandor by her side. Even in the cold, she felt comfortable. “People always say that Northerners are cold and stoic. Those people have never seen what we’re like in the dead of winter. My brothers, Theon, Arya and I would drag all of our bedding down to the main hall and pile in front of the fireplace. We would all kick each other and then argue about who kicked who. Father would tell us stories from his chair, or Mother would while she sewed new cloaks for father or the bannermen. We’d have big mugs of hot cider or tea.” 

She was waxing nostalgic, she knew. She also knew that Sandor likely had no pleasant family memories. In a bid to not bring up that fact, she cleared her throat. “It’s be nice to get back to Winterfell and be able to do something similar ourselves. 

"I imagine you'll be a lot busier than that," quipped Sandor. "Although you're rather talented with a needle, if I recall." He remembered that Arya had named that little blade of hers Needle, and smiled at the memory of the childish gesture. The Stark sisters were as different as night and day, but there was a certain shared strength between them that he found himself quite fond of. 

“At first, yes. There will be much that needs to be done. We still need to collect grain and other food stores from the Northern Lords. If they need to winter at Winterfell, which looks increasingly like a possibility, it’s better to have as much of the food on site as possible. Same for other kinds of supplies; cloth, fur, firewood, candles, horse-feed, and more,” she agreed. “But afterwards, when we can do no more and the snows are high against the gates; families will take the time to bond and strengthen their ties. Father always said that was why families of the North were always so close.” 

He nodded, thinking again that Sansa will make an excellent queen. He told himself to enjoy the moment; he doubted she'd have much leisure time soon, even if the Winter was long and deep. 

They finished their meal in companionable quiet. Once servants came to reclaim the table and chairs, Sansa stood. “Maester Wolkan will probably want you to rest for the next stretch. I’ll make sure the farrier ties Stranger to the wagon so he knows where you are.” 

"Best if I do that myself," Sandor grunted. "The farrier's likely to have his head stove in by his own handiwork if he tries." 

After Stranger was properly hitched without incident and Sandor was aboard the wagon, huddled beneath the mound of furs, the party continued along the slushy path in the waning afternoon light. 

**

A few more days and finally Winterfell was in sight. Sansa nearly crumpled in relief to have this tedious journey over with, although she admitted she would miss her nightly affections with Sandor, chaste as they had been. She hadn’t wanted to tease him while he was possibly not capable of withstanding it. He was all but fully healed now, though. Wolkan had cleared him for any activities he cared to partake, with the exception of jumping off of any more towers. 

Sansa rode at the head, as it would be expected of the Lady of Winterfell. She had instructed her bannermen to allow Sandor to ride just behind her, as would be the proper place for her Sworn Shield. It was not official yet, of course. She couldn’t knight him until she was crowned. 

When he had first rode into Winterfell seven years ago, Sandor Clegane had been part of the King's Entourage, riding beside the crown prince in a full suit of amour and a helm fashioned into the snarling snout of a hound. The elaborate amour and helmet were gone now: he wore much simpler garments of studded leather and mail, which allowed him far more freedom of movement and clear vision of his surroundings. It was far better than being carted up to the gate like livestock, certainly. 

Sansa smiled when she saw Lord Copper Royce already in the yard to meet her. She had left him in charge of Winterfell in her absence upon Lord Yohn Royce’s recommendation. Now that the Vale was under the jurisdiction of the North, thanks to Baelish’s declaration, she felt certain that she could depend upon both House Arryn and House Royce for support in her queendom. 

“Your Grace,” he bowed graciously. Merely a decade younger than Yohn, he was white-haired but as fit as a man half his age. “Welcome home. We have been anxiously awaiting your arrival. I trust the journey back from King’s Landing was uneventful?” 

“Barring one small storm, yes. It’s been mercifully quiet. I am glad to see that everything seems to have been quiet here as well, Lord Royce,” she agreed. Behind her, she heard a soft grunt as Sandor dismounted from Stranger’s back and came to stand by her side, offering his hand up to help her down. She took it, sliding down from Jonquil’s back and landing fairly gracefully considering the long ride. 

Lord Royce looked from her to Sandor and then back again questioningly. It took her a moment to realize that the two men had likely never met. “Ah, yes, allow me; Lord Royce, this is Sandor Clegane of Clegane’s Keep in the Westerlands, now pledged to House Stark. He has agreed to be named my Sworn Shield once I have been crowned. Sandor, this is Lord Copper Royce of the Vale, Lord Yohn Royce’s brother. I have taken him on to be one of my trusted advisors, with Lord Robin’s blessings.” 

"Welcome to Winterfell, Clegane," Royce said with a nod. If he recognized the name, the scars, or the reputation, he made no comment on it. Addressing Sansa once more, he went on as they walked together. 

"Aye, it's been a quiet time of it here, Your Grace. Your rooms have been readied if you'd care to take your ease before meals." 

“That would be most welcome.” She fell into step with the men, heading inside. The heat emanating from the walls and floor was most welcome. “I see someone managed to repair the piping from the hot springs. That will be very important when winter truly digs its heels in. Dare I hope that anyone thought to repair and replant the greenhouse?” 

"The repairs are complete, and the planting is continuing," confirmed Royce. "The plumbing was a fortunate thing; the springs appear to be stable. It would be difficult to stock, but there's been some suggestion of cultivating a fish pond. With Maester Wolkan's assistance, perhaps...We could discuss it in council soon." 

Sandor was impressed. He hadn't even imagined the idea of having a natural source of hot water, let alone flowing through pipes for heating, although now that he thought of it, Winterfell had been unusually warm for a hold so far North. He had never heard of a green house, but from the conversation he assumed it was for crops of some kind - clever. Winterfell was a vast hold that spanned several acres, even excluding the winter town outside the towering walls and turrets of the castle. He had first seen it in summer; the next time he hadn't had much interest in his surroundings and no time for touring, but now he found himself curious about the place, looking at it as his new home. 

“Excellent. I have made overtures to Dorne and Highgarden for open trade routes. We have many usable exports that they will want in exchange for seeds and plants and other foodstuff. It’s possible we may be able to get small fry from them as well. Once we collect a Small Council together, we will need to determine hunting parties, not just for food, but for hides as well. And it seems Arya’s dire wolf, Nymeria, has been spotted leading a pack through the woods. We should make every attempt to protect livestock outside of our gates with non-lethal means. It will be bracing for many that direwolves have returned to the North.” 

She paused for a moment, thinking of Lady. Her pup had not gotten the chance to grow up and she had dearly missed her ever since. “If anyone in the North happens to find a direwolf pup, I want to know about it. Although I do not want anyone specifically searching for one.” 

Sandor wasn't as excited with the idea of direwolves roaming around the Northern pastures and woodlands, but that wasn't really his concern. As queen, it would be of interest to Sansa, but he was content to leave the beasts to places far from livestock and those who tended them. 

Royce nodded, making mental notes of all of Sansa's plans. "All will be taken care of Your Grace. With your leave, I will head to the kitchens to ensure the staff know to prepare dinner for everyone." 

"Of course, thank you, Lord Royce," Sansa nodded, dismissing the man. With a smile, she turned, grasping Sandor's hand. "Come. I'll show you upstairs." She had taken up in her parents' old rooms, as was befitting the Queen. For Sandor, she'd already decided that he could have Robb's old rooms, as they were right next to hers. "Here we are," she said, opening the door, pleased to see that the servants had made certain everything was clean and orderly, that fires were built up and both wine and water were waiting. 

The stone walls and heavy wooden beams of the ceiling might have made the room dark and cavernous; instead it was warm and comfortable, well-furnished but not cluttered, and smelled fresh and clean. The furniture was solid and sturdy, simple and functional and not ornate, as he preferred it. A place, he thought, that he found easy to call home. 

Sansa stood by the doorway, watching him examine the room. “Will this do? I thought it best since my room in right next door. As my Shield, you should be able to hear if there is any sort of problem in my room,” she explained. “I can have the servants fill the tub for you if you wish to bathe. And for afterwards…” she drifted off, looking at Robb’s old wardrobe. There was no possible way that Robb’s clothes would fit Sandor. Perhaps she could find something of her father’s. “I believe I can find something for you to wear. You must be tired of those old things,” she said, gesturing to the faded shirt and trousers he currently wore, garments obtained quickly and without much attention paid to quality. 

"A basin of hot water will be sufficient, and the clothes can wait, unless we are to dress for dinner," Sandor replied. Truth was, he needed to rest again, and the bed looked comfortable...or perhaps a chair, with a cup of wine and a bit of fresh bread; that sounded blissful. "You're home now, little bird; you no longer need to be my nursemaid. I'm sure you'd like to take your leisure while you've the time." 

She smiled at him softly, though her eyes were a bit reluctant. "Yes, I suppose I should. Although I must say, I don't mind being your 'nursemaid' in the slightest. But I imagine it does get a bit irritating to a man as independent as you are." She looked down at her feet and then back up at him, blushing slightly. It had been some time since he'd called her 'little bird' and she found she liked it immensely, even if she was no long the same little bird that he'd known in Kings Landing. 

With a sidelong glance and half-smile, Sandor commented, "I know you don't mind, and I don't find it irritating, but you are home, and after the travels you should to look after yourself for a while. Go on," he urged. He settled into the chair, slouching back comfortably. "Sansa," he said quietly, as he still felt awkward calling her by her first name only, and not her titles. "Thank you for all your kindness. I'm not a man of many words, but I am grateful." 

Her blush deepened as she smiled. "You're very welcome, Sandor," she replied, just as unused to using his first name. "Wash up and rest a bit. I'll come fetch you for supper when it's ready." With that, she took her leave of him, letting him have some long-deserved privacy. 

Once in her own rooms, she was very pleased to find that Grilde had already prepared a bath for her. She undressed and sank into the hot water gratefully. It felt amazing to finally be neck deep in warm soapy water. Grilde sat on a short stool behind her, tending to her hair. "It's nice to be home, isn't it Your Grace?" the girl ventured. 

Sansa smiled, pleased that she had broached conversation. "It is. We have precious little time for leisure, I fear. But moments like these are to be treasured. What of you? Have you parents or other family who will be pleased to see you returned?" 

"Aye, Your Grace. My older brother, Edd. He's the new blacksmith here," she nodded. "He's very good. Maybe not as skilled as the new Lord of the Riverlands, but he's young yet, just eighteen." 

“Forgive me; I never asked how old you are?” Sansa realized a bit belatedly. She had never liked the strict separation between nobility and servants in Kings Landing. She doubted Cersei had ever bothered to even learn her handmaidens’ names, let alone anything else about them. In Winterfell, as a child, she’d known all of the servants’ names and personalities. The latter seemed a much more comfortable way to live, in her opinion. 

“Fourteen, Your Grace,” she smiled, freckled face beaming. “Edd says he’ll have to start fighting boys off of me any day now.” 

“I’m sure he will!” she laughed, relaxed in Grilde’s easy smile. She was very pretty and Sansa had no doubt that Edd the blacksmith had already been compelled to chase off more than a few eager young swains. 

“Your Grace, might I have permission to ask you a question?” she asked, biting her bottom lip as she began to braid back Sansa’s wet hair. 

“Yes, of course. What’s on your mind?” 

“The man that we brought back with us. The one with the scarred face. Who is he?” 

Sansa raised an eyebrow, having not been prepared for that question. “His name is Sandor Clegane. My sister and I both met him a long time ago. He was badly wounded in the massacre and I felt it best to bring him home to Winterfell.” 

“Is he a soldier then? A man that large must be a fighter of some kind.” Grilde seemed almost afraid as well as intrigued. 

“Yes, he is a very capable and ferocious fighter. He even won the Tourney of the Hand against knights like Jamie Lannister and Loras Tyrell. He protected me as best he could while I was engaged to Joff. But he grew disillusioned with how corrupt things were in Kings Landing and left to preserve his own sense of honor. He offered to take me with him so I could escape the Lannisters, but I was too afraid of what would happen if we were caught.” Sansa swallowed a bit. She knew that was not entirely true; he’d fled primarily because of the wildfire that had gripped the city. “And somewhere along the way, he found my sister and tried to get her back to our family.” 

“He’s a good man, then?” Grilde asked, before catching herself. “Pardon me, Your Grace. Of course, he’s a good man. You would not have brought him here otherwise.” 

“He is a good man,” Sansa assured her. “A bit gruff and blunt with his words, but he has a good heart. He does not suffer fools lightly.” 

“How did he get those scars on his face? Was it from the dragonfire?” Grilde asked; eyes wide. 

“No, he’s had those scars as long as I’ve known him. He doesn’t talk about them, so I assume he doesn’t want people to know how he came by them.” Another small lie, but it was not her story to tell. She knew Sandor had guarded that tale jealously and she was not about to go declaring it to all of Winterfell. She was no fool, she was well aware that anything she told Grilde would likely make its way through the entire staff. Not because of any ill-intentions, but simply because gossip was gossip. She would not be the source of this gossip. 

**

He had no idea where they had found them, but the garments delivered to his room were made of fine cloth and fit his large frame fairly well. The tunic was actually too big, but not because his injuries: it had been cut that way before being pressed into his service. It felt unfamiliar to be clean and well-dressed: he was relaxed, having his fill of the wine and bread before washing and dressing for dinner. 

Clad in one of her slightly less severe black gowns, her hair combed into a sleek five-strand braid, Sansa headed towards Sandor’s door, having already sent Grilde down to prepare her table for dinner. She knocked three times before announcing herself. “Time for dinner, Ser. If you would not mind accompanying me.” Formal words, perhaps, though her tone was gentle and warm. 

"Very different protocols in the North," Sandor commented as he escorted her to the great hall. "You'll have to get used to doing things differently as queen, you know. More formalities." 

"Only if I demand them," she replied smoothly. "My parents never stood by formalities unless the situation called for it. Entertaining a visiting lord or any sort of official business, yes, then formalities were upheld. Dinner at home among my own is no cause for pomp and ego-stroking." 

"You are returning home as queen of the north and sister to the king of Westeros. Like it or not, your grace, from now on, you're at court before your subjects, and they will have some expectations of propriety. Nothing like that nonsense from King's Landing, I hope, but some. You're their leader now." He shrugged. "You were raised as a lady; it won't be that difficult for you, I reckon." 

"No, it won't be," she agreed, though did not seem entirely happy about the prospect. "Old habits die hard, as they say. I almost envy Arya for having escaped the trappings of being a lady. She's beholden to no one, not even me. Probably not even Bran. I know it sounds horrible, but part of me resents her a little for scampering off to who-knows-where when we could really benefit from having her here." The confession tasted sour in her mouth, as though her own tiny bit of bitterness was tainting the words. 

"She'd be of no benefit cooped up here; she's not suited to court life. And you'd be miserable out there, sailing to the horizon and beyond, especially knowing what you've left behind here, in Winterfell." 

"I know, it just..." she sighed softly, biting her bottom lip. "I just wish we were all together again. Me, Arya, Bran, Jon... we're the only Starks left in the world; even if Jon is technically a Targaryen. I’m going to be crowned in less than a fortnight and... I barely know anyone who will be in attendance." 

"You miss your family; that's no surprise," he replied. "But your subjects are your family now. I'm sure at least some of your relatives will come, too." He didn't mention that of course he'd be there, despite his reluctance to commit to settling in one place for long. He had no interest in returning to his own family's holdings even though, he supposed, he had become the head of the house after his brother's demise. He didn't even know if anyone still lived there or if the house itself was still standing, and he cared even less. 

"My uncle will be here, although I doubt he is yet in the mood to forgive me for stealing his thunder at the summit. He tried to start some sort of long-winded speech to convince the others to choose him as king. I flatly told him to sit down. Perhaps I should have been gentler, but I was not wrong. He would be a weak king." She held Sandor's arm a little tighter as they turned down the hallway leading to the great hall, her head held high. 

"Weak men often surround themselves with strong and powerful allies," Sandor pointed out as they entered the hall. The cavernous room was full of firelight and the cheerful sounds of the feast. 

“So do strong ones,” she said with a small smile as everyone in the hall stood for her entrance. She silently entreated them to sit down and resume their meals with a gracious wave of her hand. “Come, sit next to me for dinner. You’re not technically on-duty so you don’t need to stand behind me and look at everyone suspiciously yet.” She led him up to the high table, allowing him to pull her chair out for her. 

Truth was, he might have preferred to watch and he was always on alert anyway, but being sat at her side was just as good. He found himself glancing over at her constantly throughout the meal, observing her as she conversed with the stream of well-wishers that passed in front of the table and raised her cup to the many toasts proposed to her. He made certain she took the time to eat enough too, but she seemed to relax and enjoy the feast as the night continued. He found that the sight of her happy smile and twinkling blue eyes warmed his heart in an unfamiliar but welcome way. 

The stream of visitors ebbed off and she was able to turn her attention to her meal; rabbit and some greens and potatoes. She allowed herself to use a little of the butter on her potatoes since butter would not keep for very long. They had a fair-size herd of milk-cows too; so as long as they could keep the animals fed through the winter, then milk and butter and cheese would be available. One of the servants, filled her goblet with some Arbor gold wine. As a sweet wine, she preferred it to the sour Dornish red, although she would drink either if offered. 

“Sandor… we have both Arbor gold and Dornish red, do you have a preference?” she asked her quiet companion, if only to hear his voice. He had barely said a word since they sat down. She already assumed he would want Dornish red, since he purported to dislike sweet things. 

"The red suits me fine," he replied. The cups he had at the meal, added to what he already had in his room, was working its relaxing magic on his mood, and he was enjoying himself despite the noisy crowd and the late hour. 

Sansa relaxed as well, looking over the people assembled and making mental notes of their prevailing attitudes and mannerism. She sat up straight when a young man with sandy hair approached, bowing respectfully. To her other side, Maester Wolkan leaned closer to her, whispering so she and Sandor only could hear. "That is Master Vyr Hart; Roose Bolton was his uncle. He spent some time at the Dreadfort with the Boltons when he was young, but was never a permanent resident." 

Sansa stiffened at the name, but otherwise kept her composure as she beckoned him forward. "Master Hart, you are welcome here as my guest. What can Winterfell do for you?" 

"Thank you, Your Grace. First, allow me to offer my sincerest apologies for what the Boltons did to you and yours," he said, taking a knee to demonstrate his humility. "The Bolton name is extinct, but as I am Roose Bolton's only living relative, I have come to petition you to allow my family, the Harts, to take control of the Dreadfort. It has been mostly abandoned since the Battle of the Bastards, as they call it." 

Sandor watched this exchange with some interest. It was a bit inappropriate to approach Sansa at what was really just a dinner feast; such formal requests would be more correctly addressed after the coronation when she was holding court. The fact that it was related to the Boltons was interesting as well; would it impact her response? 

"I see," she replied, nodding slightly. "I have not yet decided what to do about the Dreadfort. I assume you have plans for it that don't involve flaying people. Kindly put together some sort of report on what you would prefer to do with the land and the estate and I will look it over before making a decision. I'll give you a month." This seemed the wisest thing to do. The young man might be related to the Boltons, but was not a Bolton himself, thus Sansa had no desire to take out any kind of revenge upon him. Plus, she knew someone had to take over the Dreadfort, being that it was the largest of the currently un-manned castles in the North. Situated strategically on the Weeping Water, it was the main defense against enemies from the Narrow Sea. 

With a polite bow, Master Vyr Hart made his exit. Sansa sat back from her more regal pose and took a long sip from her cup. It was quite late and after the long journey, the idea of sleeping in an actual bed within warm, solid walls was all the more appealing. 

Maester Wolkan stood and bowed to her respectfully before taking his leave, shooing everyone else out of the Great Hall on his way. Sansa let out a soft sigh, "I think it is past our bedtime, don't you?" She smiled, reasoning that no one had reminded Sandor about his "bedtime" since he was a very small child. 

He nodded, getting to his feet and helping Sansa from her chair. Escorting her to her door, he left her with a bow of his head, heading to his own quarters. 

**

Grilde met her at her door, having already built up the fire and turned down the blankets on her bed. Once the handmaiden had loosened the laces of her gown and helped her into her nightdress, Sansa bid her goodnight. It was late, but she found she was reluctant to go to bed. Lacking anything else to do, she crawled under the blankets and tried to relax. The crackle of the fire helped soothe her somewhat, but sleep remained elusive. 

Her thoughts drifted inexorably to Sandor. He'd looked quite handsome cleaned up and in fresh clothing. It had felt so natural and right to have him by her side during dinner. She missed the feel of his warmth against her now, after several nights spent in the back of the wagon together. They had shared little more than a few kisses and some vital body heat, but she ached for more. Her dreams of making love with him had not exactly stopped, although they had never again been as intense or real as the one the night before the battle against the dead. She wanted to feel his arms around her again, to kiss his mouth and learn his scars with her fingertips. 

Sandor found that he missed the rocking motion and thin partition of the wagon as he lay in the bed. It was warm in the cave-like room, and quiet. The bed was wider than the wagon had been, and he found himself scanning the shadows the banked embers cast along the walls. During the day, there had at least been the sounds of others from outside in the yards and in the hallways, but in the hush of the dark hours there was little noise. He sighed, pulling the covers around him closer. His arms felt empty, was what it was; he had grown used to holding Sansa in them during their travels. 

After an hour of attempting to sleep, with no success in sight, Sansa rose from her bed and padded to her door in bare feet. She didn't bother lighting a candle, she knew the way well enough that she could have found her way blind. One hand gliding along the stone walls, she stopped when she felt the wooden door to Sandor's room. She supposed she should knock, but what if he was already asleep? After a moment of deliberation, she opened the door and slipped inside. 

The fire had been banked and the candles had been blown out, but she could make out Sandor's huge form in the bed and could hear the gentle hum of his breathing. She took a deep breath and crept closer, slowly lifting the blankets to climb into bed with him. 

It felt perfectly natural to engulf her in his arms beneath the blankets; he did so without question or comment. There was an odd, trusting innocence to it: she was so small curled against him, comfortable and safe. 

"I missed feeling your arms around me," she whispered by way of explanation. "I couldn't sleep." She curled closer to him. laying her head on his shoulder, one arm tucked between their chests and the other sliding around him, fingertips playing along the bare skin of his back. She realized only belatedly that he was not wearing a shirt. Unseen in the dark, she blushed hotly, wondering if he slept completely bare. 

Sandor wasn't about to admit that he had missed her, too. "Perhaps you can now," he murmured, hoping that his body didn't betray how enjoyable her attention to his skin was. Despite her diminutive size compared to his, he was acutely aware that she was very much a woman, not a child. It was a bit ridiculous, he thought, that he could be so protective and so aroused at the same time, especially considering how many nights they had been in exactly the same position recently. 

She nodded and pressed a soft kiss against his neck, her lips finding scarred skin. To her surprise, it didn’t strike her as repulsive at all; his scars were rough and uneven, but it was still just skin. It was warm and alive under her touch. She heard and felt Sandor take in a sharp breath at the contact. She couldn't be sure in the darkness, but it was possible he flinched. 

"It's all right," she assured him, hand sliding from his back forward to cup his unscarred cheek. "Let me." 

She wasn't even certain of what she was asking him to let her do, only that she wanted to explore the halls and valleys of the scars that had caused him so much anguish. 

He gave a quick nod, staying as still as possible, not fully trusting himself not to react to her exploration. Her touch on his face wasn't unpleasant, just unfamiliar. He knew how horrible the scars looked: when she had first seen him, she had been petrified at the sight of his ugly ruin of a face, but now she was reaching up to brush her fingertips over them as if to memorize every inch of it by touch. She had said that she had seen worse than him since, and that saddened him in a way, but it also conveyed to him just how much she had matured. 

Soft fingertips slid gently over his scarred cheek and brow, over his scalp where no hair would ever grow again. She smoothed his hair back from those scars, learning the path of them. It was amazing how his eye had escaped damage, given how terribly scarred the skin surrounding it was. Again, she leaned closer, pressing her lips against his scars. She tangled her fingers in his hair to hold him close, her cheek pressed to his, eyelashes whisking against his skin. 

This was not the same chaste cuddling they had done during the journey! Sandor fought against the impulse to grab her hands away and hold her against him, to show her what her soft attentions were doing to him. Instead he lay still on the bed, forcing his breath to be steady and even. 

She pulled back, eyes searching the darkness, barely able to make out the shape of his face. Unable to resist any longer, she captured his mouth with hers. At first, he didn't move; but the moment she felt him start to respond, she slid her tongue along the seam of his mouth, gently entreating for more. 

The taste of sweet wine lingered in her mouth as he cupped her face and returned her kisses with passionate ones of his own. He wanted to drink her in, share her breath, and possess her in a way he had held in check for too long. 

She moaned softly into his kisses, the two of them shifting so that she was on her back and he was slightly above her. One hand tangled in his hair, keeping his face close to hers, meeting his kisses with her own until it was no longer clear who instigated each one. The taste of him was intoxicating! “Sandor,” she breathed his name in a gasp, pausing only to rain kisses along his throat and the side of his neck. Even the scent of him was provocative to her hungry senses. 

Suspending the bulk of his body over her, his breath a raspy hum, he leaned into her kisses, urging her to continue. Each touch of her lips and her utterance of his name felt like lightning over his skin. 

“Sandor,” she breathed his name again, her mouth against his melted ear. “Gods, how I ache for you...” She hadn’t even considered her words before they were out of her mouth. She bit her lip, then pressed forward. “I’ve wanted you for a long time. I even somehow convinced myself that you’d stolen a kiss from me, my first kiss, the night of the Blackwater. You didn’t, but I wanted you to have and I made myself believe you had.” 

The night he should have stolen her away, he thought; the night he had hid in her room, delaying his departure in the attempt to take her with him, away from King's Landing and the Lannisters and the whole fucking nest of self-absorbed vipers. It was the first time he had confessed to himself that he harbored some feelings for her that were more than pity or mere protectiveness. 

Gods, the battle of Blackwater! The vision of the ripples of green flames rushing over the water in the bay, engulfing the invading ships and all aboard them still burned behind his eyelids and in his memory. He had been a loyal dog to his Lannister masters until then, but even his treasonous dereliction of his position didn't prevent him from leaving without at least trying to convince that poor, noble girl to come away with him. 

She had been scared of him then; every time she glanced at him and then away, he could sense it. But she was inexplicably drawn to him at the same time, as much if not more so than he was to her. He had fled then, abandoning her there, and had regretted it ever since. Her confession of an imagined kiss confirmed what neither of them could have admitted before: that they had long shared a desire of each other; a desire that at last they could act upon without reservation. He continued kissing her, again and again, as if to bestow all of her imagined kisses on her soft skin in truth. 

Moaning softly, she slid her arms around him, fingers grasping at his shoulder blades for purchase, as though fearing he might try to pull away. She tilted her head back, letting him rain kisses along her neck and collarbone, enjoying the gentle caress of his mouth and the scratch of his beard. One leg curled up, pressing against his side, almost cradling him against her body. 

Quiet cries escaped her throat, though she tried to stifle them, pressing her mouth to his strong shoulder or to the tender apex between his throat and his shoulder. Her heart hammered in her chest like a war-drum; more tellingly, she could feel his heartbeat answering, thumping wildly against her breast. 

Arousal sang along his body in response to hers, alive with a growing frenzy. How much they had endured; how much they had denied too long! He was so hard he ached, wanting to plunge into her. 

“Touch me,” she whispered against his lips before catching his mouth in a hungry kiss. A slender hand found his where it rested rather chastely against her shoulder. A deep breath and she led his hand lower to her breast. “Please?” 

His large hand encircled and held the soft weight of it. He curled his fingers and brushed them over the surface, the nipple rising and hardening from the stimulation. He wanted to feel every part of her, to pleasure her knowing he was the cause of it. Cupping her breast, he leaned his head down and kissed her there, above her heartbeat, circling that hard nipple, encouraged by Sansa's reactions. 

Even with the thin cloth of her shift in the way, she could still feel the heat of his mouth. His attentions quickly soaked the small portion of cloth over her nipple, adding to the warmth and pleasure. She arched against him eagerly, fingers combing through his hair. “Oh Gods… that feels good,” she panted softly, all but begging for more. The thrumming ache between her legs increased, causing her to rock her hips against him lightly without even realizing it. Something was twisting and tight deep inside of her, throbbing and demanding more of Sandor’s touch. 

With a soft growl of her own, her hand slid down, trying to rid herself of her nightdress and swearing in a very unladylike manner when she found this easier said than done. 

Without pause, he gently pushed her hand away, lifting the hem up and then over her body, helping her remove it over her head. Leaning back, he studied her in the far too dim light, wishing he could see her naked form more distinctly beneath him. Instead he settled on one forearm beside her and traced along her skin with his fingertips, relishing every dark freckle on her pale skin, every slender curve. He was incredibly stiff, and torn between going slow to please her and throwing caution to the wind to sate his own desire. 

She blushed hotly, not used to being bare to anyone in this way. In her dreams, she'd been bold and had known exactly where she wanted him to touch her. Reality, however, made her a bit less confident. She laid her arms down on either side of her body, trying to hold still so Sandor could explore her at his leisure. 

Calloused fingertips slid along one of her nipples, making her sigh softly with pleasure. She swore under her breath, arching her back eagerly. "Gods, you make my blood sing," she moaned. 

A pleased rumble rose from Sandor as he continued touching her. The catch of her breath, how she arched up to his attentions, the dark flush of passion on her pale form - all drove him on, forcing him to pace himself. It would be far too easy to roll on top of her and take her quickly, but then it would be over, and she deserved more than that. Determined to pleasure her thoroughly, he ran one hand over her from top down, while his other hand grazed across her breasts, stroking her nipples. "I like it when you sing, little bird," he growled softly. 

She leaned into his caress like a cat demanding to be petted, purring softly. The rasp of his voice trailed over her skin like a caress, making her shiver with delight. “I like it when you growl like that,” she countered, smiling at him with what she hoped was a sultry expression. 

He chuckled at her comment, dropping his head to capture a nipple in his mouth. Far gentler than he would have if he was solely focused on himself, he sucked and licked it, grasping the curve of her hip as she gasped and moaned. 

Her fingers gripped his hair, urging him on. Her hips canted up against him eagerly and entirely without her conscious choice. Thighs trembling, she was torn between wanting to keep them clamped shut and wanted to spread them wide for him. Without even having to touch herself, she knew she was already wet and slick for him. That was certainly new; she’d never been so ready without having to touch herself a good bit first. Part of her wanted to grab his hand and lead it between her legs so he could feel the effect he had on her. Another part wanted him to find it for himself. 

Sansa's writhing repeatedly stroked up against his already aroused and ready erection, and it was maddening. He was relentless with his lustful onslaught, the hand gripping her hip snaking over her belly and down, parting her legs and tracing every fold between them. 

She gave a soft cry as she felt the first touch of his fingers between her legs. Once eased open, she parted her legs for him, pushing against his hand eagerly. "Sandor..." she whined his name. Every stroke of his fingers sent thrums of pleasure through her entire body, making her ache fiercely for more. 

He was astonished by how eager she was, begging him to enter her. She was wet and warm and ready, and he almost wept at the realization that it was probably the first time a man had bothered to pleasure her. Seven hells, he had to do this right! Tenderly, almost reverently, he stroked her with his thumb, slowly inserting first one finger, then another, until she was cupped against his palm, and then he moved in and out, rocking with her, whimpering quietly with the effort to be steady and contain himself. 

Almost sobbing in arousal, Sansa rode his hand, gripping the bedsheets so hard that her knuckles ached. This was far beyond any pleasure she’d been able to grant herself. Sandor’s fingers were thicker than her own and his wrist was at a far better angle, for starters. “Yes…” she gasped in a plaintive cry, one hand leaving he bedsheets to clutch at his shoulder, nails biting into his skin. 

He barely felt the sting of her nails as he moved faster, harder... he felt her tense around his fingers as he rubbed the spot at her apex with his thumb. "Go on," he rasped, imagining the sensation around his cock. "Go on..." 

“Please… Sandor… please!” she exclaimed, teetering on the edge of a knife before toppling over. Pleasure crashed over her in powerful waves, her every breath coming out in a cry of joy. She clenched and pulsed around his fingers tightly, seeking more and more from him. It felt like forever and a split-second at the same time and left her panting hard, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. She curled tightly against him as her pleasure slowly ebbed, tears stinging her eyes. “Oh gods… that was… amazing,” she whispered in a tear-stained voice. 

A smile passed over his face in the shadowed room as he held her tenderly. Every one of his senses was bombarded by her presence: he could even smell her passion and it nearly pushed him over the edge. 

_You told her long ago that I wouldn't hurt her_ , he reminded himself. _You'll not get a bastard on her, or even fuck her, until she is ready to have you without the memory of what she's endured._

With some effort, he focused on her, easing his hand away. He stroked her hair as it lay in a coppery veil around her on the bed. To Sansa he only muttered, "It's all right; I've got you." 

“I’m all right,” she assured him, pulling back so he could see her face, smiling easily through her tears. “That was just… so much more than I even imagined. These are blissful tears, I promise.” She cupped his cheek with her hand, drawing him down into a sweet kiss. “You are wonderful, my knight.” 

He began to protest that he wasn't a knight, but it was lost in the kiss. Fucking hells, he adored this woman in a way that he hadn't felt for anyone or anything before. She was every contradiction to him: strong and fragile, innocent and seductive, kind and stubborn, all in this one woman, a noble lady who would soon be a queen. He both wanted to claim her and protect her, defend and ravish her. He wondered if he hadn't completely lost his mind, falling off that fucking wall into the flames and being hauled across Westeros to... what? She wanted him to be her Shield, but this? He wasn't a lover. He knew it was a lie even as he thought it. For her, he would be, as best he was able. 

She continued to press gentle kisses to his face and neck, reveling in the languid heat that settled through her. Still, she could feel the tension in his body, how he trembled slightly in his efforts to control himself. She could feel the hard length of him against her hip, throbbing with his heartbeat. 

“What about you?” she asked. “You’re not… I mean you haven’t yet…” she struggled to come up with the right words so she did not sound either clinical or crude. “You haven’t… finished… yet.” 

No, he hadn't finished, and the impulse to drive himself into her wet, open cunt was damn near impossible to ignore. It was agonizing, knowing that he could simply give in to his more violent lust and ravish her as long and as deep as he wanted, but he would break her if he did so. He had promised he wouldn't hurt her, and he meant it, even if he had to rein himself in. Gods, he felt like such a selfish bastard for even thinking of choosing his own satisfaction over her! It was the ugliness inside of himself that he so hated, the part that felt so detached from human tenderness: he knew what he was capable of doing if he had allowed himself no restraint. He was not a gentle man, and lived with the reality of what his brute strength and size would allow him in other circumstances. But he also remembered the terrified shrieks and whimpers of the woman next to him when she had been not more than a girl attacked in a shadowed alleyway in King's Landing, of her horror when she first bled, knowing it meant she'd have to submit to her royal husband and his cruel appetites; he remembered the ice cold gaze of her eyes when they met again long after, when she related how she had dispatched the man who had broken her rough and tortured her away from her innocence. So, no, he hadn't finished, and he was determined not to, at least not in that way. 

Unaware of his resolve not to enter her, Sansa sat up a little bit, trying to coax him into moving between her thighs. "Sandor... please... I want you." she whispered, pulling at his shoulders gently, hands caressing down his body to his hips. When he shook his head and resisted her efforts to move him, she frowned. Did he not want her? No, that was a stupid thought, he very clearly wanted her. So why was he not cradled between her thighs right this moment? 

_He doesn't want to breed you_ , the thought came to her in a startling moment of clarity. Of course! She would be a queen in short order and it would be unforgivable on many levels for her to turn up pregnant so soon afterwards. Even if the timing was not right, there would be hefty rumors that any child she bore this quickly would be a Bolton. It would damage her reputation both as a woman and a queen. 

"Lay back, Sandor... let me take care of you." she whispered to him. 

Take care of him? Not that he needed help, exactly, but it took a moment for the suggestion to get through to him. He wondered vaguely what she had in mind, or if he should refuse her offer and take care of it on his own, so to speak. He rolled onto his back, painfully aware at just how raw and exposed he was but willing to trust her. 

She rose up, laying down against his side, one slim leg laying over his. She let her fingers drift over his hard chest and stomach. Tracing scars, both old and new, she wandered lower to his hips and thighs. 

One very thick scar on his thigh caught her attention. That must have been where he'd broken his leg, when Arya had left him for dead. Her admiration for him grew at this reminder. He'd been grievously injured, left for dead on a barren hill, bleeding and fevered with infection. But here he was now; hale and whole and very much alive. A lesser man would have died. But not her man. Not Sandor. He was strong as an ox and twice as stubborn. Death would not claim him until he was good and ready for it, she thought. 

Her hand slid up and she took a deep breath before letting them caress along his erection. Oh gods, he was like iron under her touch, skin silky smooth. "Oh..." she breathed, closing her eyes. "You feel amazing... so hard and thick." 

Sandor hissed through clenched teeth, hardly hearing her words for the intensity of sensation that shot through his cock from her slightest touch. "Close," he warned. "Won't last." 

"Don't try to last," she shook her head, leaning down to kiss him, parting his lips with her warm tongue. She slid one hand between her legs, smoothing her own wetness over her fingers before returning to Sandor's cock. Slick fingers wrapped around him and she began to stroke him slowly, letting the wetness ease the friction. "Sandor..." she breathed his name, pressing kisses along his throat and chest, tongue flicking out against one hardened nipple. 

Sandor groaned, torn between wanting to prolong the pleasure of her touch on him and knowing that he was going to burst without much encouragement. He had never had this much attention - and certainly not for so long a time - face to face over the front of his body and the physical reaction was exquisite; unlike anything he had ever experienced. Combing his fingers through her hair, he urged her on. 

Fingers stroking a little faster, Sansa moaned softly, eyes sneaking down to watch his body's response to her admittedly inexperienced touch. She wanted him to finish, she wanted to actually see him cum. There was something so oddly forbidden about watching him like this. Having such a large, strong man under her control like this was intoxicating. "Cum for me, Sandor," she whispered to him. 

That gentle request was all the urging Sandor needed. The muscles of his legs tensed as his hips thrust upward, seeking her touch as he erupted with a loud groan of sheer lustful release. His body was completely out of his voluntary control; it was a wonderful sensation as wave after wave crashed through him, jacking his hips up as he pumped forward. He wished so much that he could be inside her, filling her as she milked him - the thought spurned him on, until he fell back against the bed, utterly spent and panting for breath. 

He was beautiful in pleasure, she thought as she watched him arch and writhe, watched his hips lift and fall in a savage rhythm. It made her ache even more to have him inside of her. Once his spasms had relaxed down to a fine tremor, she eased her hand away from him. "Let me get a cloth for us," she said softly, rising from the bed to the tall basin of water nearby. Returning with the wet cloth, she wiped her thighs first, then cleaned her hand before turning her attention to Sandor's skin. 

He took the cloth from her, insisting on cleaning himself. He wasn't blind to who she was, and he couldn't bear the idea of her bathing him like a servant. He had already had enough of being wiped down like an infant during his convalescence and recovery; he certainly wasn't about to have Sansa tend to it. "You just rest," he urged, moving off the bed. 

Though she relinquished to cloth to him, she remained sitting upright in his bed, sheets and blankets piled around her, watching him with a soft expression as he wiped himself down and discarded the cloth on the floor. With a small smile, she reached out to him. "Come back to bed, Sandor." she urged him in a sweet voice. "I want to feel your arms around me while we sleep." 

He returned her smile, setting the shirt he had grabbed on the bedpost before getting back into the bed. He held up the covers, drawing her down next to him and wrapping them both in their warmth. For decorum's sake, they should have something between them, but they were beyond that now, anyway. He marveled at how well she fit in his embrace, and how comfortable he felt holding her. Impulsively he kissed her forehead with an unfamiliar tenderness. "I love you, Sansa Stark," he murmured, drowsy from more than wine. 

Sansa smiled and bit her lip against the sudden threat of tears. "I love you too, Sandor Clegane," she responded in kind, pressing a gentle kiss to his collarbone. "Get some sleep, love. We both need it." she whispered against his skin, relaxing into the warmth and strength of him. 

**

She wasn't even sure when she fell asleep, the segue between asleep and awake was so subtle. It was only when she felt the morning sunlight shining through the narrow window. She moaned softly and stretched, curling closer to the warmth of the man next to her. For a moment, she remained still, remembering the dreams she'd had of Sandor before. How achingly disappointed she'd been come morning when she found herself alone. 

But this was no dream. Sandor was real and solid and so warm against her. She smiled, sliding one hand over his chest and up into his hair, gently combing through the dark strands. It felt so right to wake up next to him like this; warm and safe and naked. 

With his expression quiet and slack in slumber, Sandor looked more like a hibernating bear than a ferocious killer. He stirred at her touch, blinking open his eyes. Different emotions chased across his face, from confusion at finding Sansa still in his arms to the realization that none of what had happened was imagined. A low happy sound rumbled from him as he shifted next to her, stretching slightly without removing her from his embrace. 

He didn't remember ever feeling this content; Sansa's body was a warm, soft weight against his side, and the quiet sound of their breathing in the early morning was one of the most peaceful things he had ever felt. 

"Morning," she murmured, her voice muffled against his chest. "Did you sleep well? It seems we both neglected to rise with the sun." She smiled and cuddled closer to him, placing soft, open-mouthed kisses against his shoulder and the side of his neck. 

"Speak for yourself," Sandor quipped with a quick grin. Truth was, he had slept well, far better than he had in a long time, and not only due to the actualization of some of his previous dreams. Sleeping in a real bed, surrounded by solid walls, with a clean body filled with food and wine helped, too, he was certain. As expected, certain other physical functions were requesting his attention, but for once he was reluctant to do so. "Parts of me aren't having any trouble waking up. But that was the best sleep I've had for a long while." 

"For me as well." she agreed, hand sliding from his hair back down to his chest, tracing idle patterns on his skin. "Yet I am still reluctant to get up. It's so warm and comfortable here with you." 

He nodded in agreement. The dawning sunlight caught the coppery strands of Sansa's hair, and he stared at it for a while. They did look a bit like flames spread out like that, he thought, but there was no fear in it. She was such a contrast to his own form that she appeared almost like something exotic in comparison. She was simply beautiful in a way so elemental that it made something twist inside of him. 

She closed her eyes, enjoying this peaceful moment. The cadence of Sandor's breathing and the matching rise and fall of his broad chest very nearly made her fall asleep once more. She shifted, leaning up along his body to kiss him, her lips soft and tender on him. "I love you." she whispered, finally able to say such a thing in the light of day. "I've loved you for some time." 

It amazed him that Sansa claimed to love him: he hadn't exactly been lovable for most of the time she had known him. He might have begun to mellow now that his brother was finally dead, but he was still new to this kind of romantic interaction, or even this type of tenderness. Pleasuring a woman, he could do, and he liked to think he’d done it well, but this - it was completely outside of his experience. He had lived his entire adult life having women look at him in terror or revulsion, either from his hideously scarred face or his fierce attitude. To have a woman - especially this woman - in his arms, content and proclaiming her love for him, was almost overwhelming. 

It suddenly occurred to him that he also loved her - truly loved, not just lusted after or felt tender affections or whatever romantic nonsense was constantly spouted in tales and songs - for a lot longer than he had realized. It had started as protecting a young, innocent girl with dreams of chivalry and royalty, perhaps, but he learned very early on that Sansa's seeming fragility and external beauty hid a passionate heart, shrewd mind and strong will, and he was drawn to her in a way he hadn't even considered before. Her innate goodness spurred him to want to be better himself, in a way: it was almost as if she restored his childhood admiration of knighthood and how it should be lived. He forgot how his face looked and all the horrible things he had done and seen when she was with him. He felt... well, he felt like a man seeking the love of his lady. His eyes widened at the thought. She is to be crowned a queen, you fool! he chided himself. She is no freer to love you than you are to her! But he stubbornly wanted just that; to love her, just as a man loves a woman, no matter what their station. 

His silence in response to her declaration concerned her a little, but she attempted not to let it show. Sandor wasn't exactly prone to extemporaneous outpourings of emotion. If he felt the same, he would say it in his own time. She laid her head back on his shoulder, lazily pressing soft kisses to his neck. She slid her hand over his arm and shoulder, over his chest, just wanting to touch him. 

"I love you," Sandor murmured quietly, holding her with his other arm as she traced over his skin with her fingers and lips. It was as much confession as it was declaration. Even if it was unfair to proclaim it like this, he wanted her to know that he wasn't choosing to be her Shield because of her royal station or out of some unfounded sense of obligation; he simply loved her. He expected nothing from her in return, either; he had at least that much respect for her and what she had endured in becoming the woman he loved. It would destroy something inside him if she would wed another, even if it was merely convenience, as it often was among kings and queens, but he chose to cherish the moments like this one, with her in his arms in the morning light and at peace, instead. 

“I know you do,” she smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his jawline. She cuddled closer to him, luxuriating in the warmth of him. She found that she loved running her hands over him, feeling the strength underneath his skin, the coarse hair on his chest and down his belly. Sandor was not and never would be a typically handsome man; and certainly not the sort of man she ever pictured herself loving when she was younger. Indeed, she had been frightened of him at first, put off by his gruff manner and scarred face, his insistence that killing was his greatest pleasure. Now, however, with a good majority of his innate hatred of the world abated, she was assured that her more recent hopes for him had come true. He was kind and protective, even his gruffness had gentled. 

Her father’s words from long ago rang in her head; that he would find someone other than Joffrey for her; someone brave and gentle and strong. She had protested mightily at the time, stupid girl that she’d been. She’d been so sure that she loved Joffrey. Her feelings for Joffrey were nothing compared to what she felt for Sandor. She smiled, wondering what her father would have thought of her choosing the Hound as her beloved. She wasn’t even sure that the two had ever met other than formally. 

He would have approved, she decided. Sandor would never allow any harm to come to her and would always protect her even from himself. He was a good man with a mind for justice, he would make a very good Lord of Winterfell. 

Lord of Winterfell… Sandor Clegane? She stifled a bit of a laugh against his shoulder. He would hate the title. He already disliked it when people called him “Ser”. Being called “My Lord” would irk him to no end. 

He glanced at her, bemused. “’I’m glad you do; I’m not a poet. Hell, I’m not even much one for talking in general… you find that funny?” he asked a bit defensively at her repressed amusement. 

"No, no... I'm not laughing at you. Something funny just occurred to me. If we were to marry, you'd be the Lord of Winterfell and prince consort. I can just imagine you growling any time someone was to call you milord," she explained her mirth, not quite thinking of how he might perceive even the casual mention of marriage between them. 

His reflexive response was that was as good as any reason *not* to marry, but he bit back the words, startled. He could not imagine any other woman in all the world he desired to wed, and he had already admitted how it would pain him to see her wed to another, but to hear her refer to their marriage, even with such humor, stirred something inside him. “You’re right, I don’t care at all for that sort of thing,” he agreed, admitting the image of a royal court petting and fawning over a snarling, irritable old dog like him was amusing. “I don’t want any fancy titles or positions or anything like that - except, well, maybe one…” 

“Oh? And what one is that?” she asked curiously, shifting to lay half on his chest, her arms crossed gracefully under her chin, her hair a flaming disarray falling over her shoulders and down her back. 

With a rare gentleness, Sandor said just one word. "Husband." 

Sansa's lips spread into a slow smile, her cheeks turning pink and her eyes gleaming. "That title would suit you very well, I think," she managed to say. "And, I would be most happy to call you my husband... so long as you would be happy to call me your wife." 

Sandor let out the breath that he hadn't been aware he had been holding. "Happy... aye, I suppose that's the word for it," he murmured. "Of course, I would be happy! But, Sansa," he continued, reluctant to spoil the moment but feeling the need to be somewhat pragmatic, "Don't be so quick to answer that. You're Queen of the North, remember. It's one thing for a queen to take a lover; taking a husband is completely different." 

"I will not let anyone dictate to me who I will marry. I've already been through that twice and I'll not do it again," she insisted, fire in her eyes. "If I am to give up the rest of my family for the North, the least that the North can afford me in kind is to let me marry for love." 

Sandor chuckled. Sansa was beautiful, indeed, but she was equally fierce, and the combination of the two was a sight to behold. It was a type of fire of which he had no fear; on the contrary, he found it almost hypnotic... and arousing. Just imagining their wedding night, of truly consummating their union, was enough for him to utter a small groan of lust. 'Seven fucking hells!' he chided himself, exasperated. His cock would have to be patient until after the coronation at the very least. 

"So... is this a promise?" she asked softly, blue eyes searching his face. She knew Sandor loved her and would do just about anything for her, but still, marriage was something he'd never before voiced a desire for. "Shall I have Maester Wolkan draw up a betrothal contract for us to sign? We won't announce anything until after the coronation, but...?" she bit her bottom lip, looking up at him hopefully. 

Thankful for the distraction, Sandor focused his attention on the fact that he had not only asked Sansa Stark, the soon-to-be Queen of the North, to be his wife, but that she had agreed to marry him. 

Fortunately, she seemed blissfully unaware of the state of his arousal. He nodded, assuring her. "It's a promise. And speaking of a crowning..." As much as he wished to continue their morning together, he knew she had obligations that would prevent it. 

Sansa groaned at this reminder. “Yes, yes, I know… things to do.” She leaned in, kissing him softly lingering over the touch before pulling back and sitting up. “I should probably sneak back into my room, although I’m sure Grilde has noticed my absence by now.” 

Sandor thought the girl would have to be either an idiot or dead not to have noticed, but refrained from saying so. For a panicked moment he considered that Sansa would expect to be escorted back to her chambers; a feat that was beyond him in his current state. It wasn't helped by the sight of Sansa in the pale morning light, her hair a deep vermillion cascade over her fair skin. She looked almost elemental and wild like that, and very much a full woman in her willowy grace and quiet strength. He realized then, watching her, it was folly to think of his proposal as possession; it was more akin to protection than anything else. 

Sansa ran her fingers through her hair, pulling it into one messy braid. Her nightgown lay crumpled on the floor, prompting her to shake it out before putting it on. Even then, it was still quite wrinkled. 

“Hmm… not subtle. Although, I suppose it doesn’t really matter.” 

Sandor grinned inwardly. He couldn't wait to see the expressions on all the Northerners' faces and especially those of Winterfell's court when they announced their betrothal, let alone the actual marriage ceremony. He doubted there'd be any subtlety involved, then, either. It suited him well enough; he didn't care for those types of games anyway, and he knew he could face any reservations they'd express... if they dared to.


End file.
